Thesaurus
by VR Trakowski
Summary: What is most precious? A sequel to In the Center. GSR Now complete.
1. Default Chapter

**Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them; any others are mine, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask me first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.**

**This is a sequel to "In the Center", and as such has spoilers through the end of Season 4 but will not take Season 5 into account. **

**Thank you to everyone who said yes to the idea. If it weren't for you, I probably wouldn't have. The first chapter's for Penn, who said I should keep going one of these times. (wink)**

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

"It was the most precious thing I had," the woman said, bewildered, tears making their slow way along her worn cheeks. "Why would someone take it?"

Grissom watched in silent compassion as Det. Vartan leaned over to pat her rough hand. "I don't know, Mrs. Habrano, but we'll do our best to get it back for you."

She shook her head, and Grissom could see that she didn't believe she would regain her stolen property. "It was my son's. It would be worthless to anyone else. It's--it's cruel."

Grissom turned back to dusting the back door of the Habrano household, but he wasn't expecting much; the lock had been picked with skill, and whoever had done so was probably smart enough to wear gloves. But procedure was procedure, and Grissom reminded himself not to assume anything. Their perpetrator might have slipped up.

There wasn't much evidence to collect. Grissom finished fairly quickly and faded out of the little house, past the round woman sitting on her couch with her eyes still wet. Vartan was out on the front lawn, making a phone call; he closed his phone as Grissom came out and shot the CSI a humorous look. "So what's a supervisor doing at a B&E?"

"Avoiding paperwork," Grissom said mildly. He didn't know the detective well, though Vartan reminded Grissom somewhat of a gazehound, with his lean face and sharp eyes.

Vartan sighed, sobering. "I hear ya. Anything turn up?"

Grissom shook his head. "A few prints, but they'll probably be Mrs. Habrano's. This was quick and clean."

The detective frowned as they walked towards their vehicles. "It doesn't make sense, though. Why take her deceased son's flute? It wasn't a valuable instrument."

"I don't know." Grissom shifted his case to his other hand. "Revenge, perhaps. Motive is your department."

"Great." Vartan gave him a wave and headed for his sedan. Grissom watched him go for a moment, reflecting on the gossip he had heard circulating around the lab. Rumor had it that Sara and the detective were eyeing each other, or even already dating, though apparently no one had yet had the guts to ask either of them for the truth. Grissom smiled to himself, a small quiet smile, as he put his case in his SUV and climbed into the driver's seat. _They don't know what I know. _

xxxxxxxxxxxx

It was a mistake. He _knew_ it would be a mistake, and he went ahead and did it anyway. And of course things turned out just as he'd feared. Dark eyes were fierce on his, and all his instincts were telling him to find someplace to hide.

He ran the conversation back through his head, remembering just when things had gone wrong--when he'd opened his big mouth and said what he knew he shouldn't.

_"By the way ... congratulations on your new--um--relationship." _

_She straightened, put down what she was holding, and turned, eyes wide. "My what?" _

_"Don't bother, Sara. I saw you two at the grocery store on Jackson Road." _

Her mouth had dropped open, then snapped into a thin line, and he knew he was in trouble. And now she had him backed up against the wall, fist in his chest, and while he outweighed her by almost eighty pounds, Nick knew he wasn't about to win this one. "You so much as _breathe_ a word of this, Stokes, and your ass is grass!"

He held up both hands in surrender. "Geez, Sara, get a grip! This is me, remember, I can keep a secret."

She held the stare for a moment longer, suspicion narrowing her eyes, and he gave her a smile. "It's about time you two got together anyway."

Another three heartbeats, and then Sara snorted, releasing him. "Shows how much you know." But humor tugged at her mouth. "Seriously, though, we could get into a ton of trouble if this gets out, and I don't want him to get hurt."

Nick stepped away from the Drying Room wall. "It's gonna get out sooner or later, you know that."

She sighed. "Yeah. But later would be nice."

Nick could just imagine the fuss. He didn't think Grissom could be anything but impartial--the man had an amazing talent for compartmentalization--but the upper-ups might not see it that way. "Well, if it does, you can just point out how much more relaxed things have been since you guys quit picking at each other."

The suspicious look was back. "Yeah? How long has that been?"

Nick grinned, his best innocent look. "Gee, I don't know..."

This time Sara laughed, and whirled away to get back to the task of seeing which pieces of evidence were dry enough to handle. Nick felt eyes on him and looked up; Grissom was standing in the doorway.

The two men exchanged a long look. Nick half-expected Grissom to be jealous, but there was no hint of that in the older man's stare--just an evaluation. Nick wondered how long he'd been standing there, what he'd overheard; he felt his own brow lifting in a silent challenge--_you take good care of her, hear?_--and saw Grissom's mouth twitch in acknowledgement. Then their supervisor's gaze moved to the slender form now paging slowly through dirty shirts. "Sara? Did O'Reilly get back to you on the warrant?"

She pulled one shirt off the rack and turned towards the room's table, giving Grissom a casual, cool glance. "Yeah, he called about an hour ago. Said he'd be by before the end of shift."

"Good. Keep me informed." And Nick had to admire how the two of them had managed to subsume the complexities of their relationship beneath a perfectly friendly professional interaction. "Nick--Jacqui was looking for you."

"Thanks, Griss." The older man nodded and left, and Nick looked back over at Sara. "Back in a minute."

"Sure," she replied absently, already deep in her examination of the shirt. Nick shook his head, amused, and went out.

xxx

"Nick knows," Sara said, collapsing bonelessly onto one of Grissom's bar stools and picking up a knife and a mango.

"I figured," Grissom replied calmly, turning bacon carefully in one skillet and keeping an eye on the omelette in another. "He won't give us away, Sara."

She peeled the fruit with all the intensity she gave to a crime scene, so she wouldn't have to meet his eyes. "I know. But somebody else is going to find out eventually."

"True." Grissom laid down his fork and leaned against the counter. "Have you actually read that part of the employee handbook?"

Sara did look at him at that, arching one brow. "Are you kidding? I double-checked it before I asked you out the first time."

He laughed, but she saw faint shame in his eyes. "I should have known."

She reached across the counter to snag the towel from his shoulder, and wiped her hands before coming around the end of the bar to put her arms around him. "No feeling guilty," she said sternly, lips next to his ear. "You weren't ready, Gil, that's all there was to it."

He sighed, returning her embrace. "I don't deserve you," he muttered, and Sara grinned against his hair.

"Sure you do." She pulled back and kissed him quickly. "Though I wouldn't be so nice about it if you hadn't come around."

Grissom pressed a kiss to her nose and put his hands on her waist, moving her gently out of the way so he could tend to the skillets. "Good thing I did, then. And you know that the handbook says nothing about relationships at work."

"But just because it isn't forbidden doesn't mean that we won't get in trouble for it, yeah." Sara slid back onto her stool and sliced the mango.

"Which means we need to be ready for it." Grissom lifted the bacon onto a paper towel to drain and cut the omelette neatly in half. "Hand me the plates please?"

Sara blotted her hands again and picked up the plates, passing them across the counter. "You have something in mind?" She knew he did; the quirk of his mouth gave him away.

"Let's sit down first."

Grissom liked small rituals, Sara knew that; breakfast was one of them. Where she would normally eat standing up in her tiny kitchen, were she alone, he made a pattern out of it--setting places for the two of them no matter whose home they were eating at, even supplying placemats and a sugar bowl. And, she had to admit, she liked it too. It gave her a sense of peace, offered a winding-down after the nights that were so often long and too often harrowing. Sure, it took more time, but time spent didn't seem to matter when they were together. These days they mostly ate at Grissom's townhouse; while Sara liked to tease him that he preferred it because he could fix himself the bacon or sausage she wouldn't stock, the truth was that he felt more comfortable in his own space, and she didn't mind at all.

After all, she'd dreamed for a long time of being welcome there. And she was.

They were seated, the second cups of coffee poured, the butter melting on the toast, and Sara knew from the tiny smirk on Grissom's face that he was teasing her. "Give," she said, pointing her fork at him.

He chuckled and sipped his coffee. "To choose the appropriate if well-worn metaphor, we have a few aces in our collective sleeve," he said, slicing into his half of the omelette. "Your solve rate is one of them; the fact that there are very few forensic entomologists is another."

Sara felt her own mouth turning up in response, and sank her fork into a slice of mango. "Nothing like a little creative threatening," she returned cheerfully, and bit into the fruit.

Grissom nodded, sobering. "There's still a substantial risk involved, though," he pointed out. "While I can present data indicating impartiality, there's still a chance that the director will call our bluff. And that would mean some hard choices."

Sara swallowed, her throat suddenly tight. She knew Grissom loved her with the same intensity she loved him, if more quietly; but she very definitely did not want him to have to choose between their relationship and the work that was so much of his life. "Well," she said deliberately, "UNLV has a pretty good doctorate program."

Grissom glanced up from his bacon, alarmed. "Sara--"

"I never did finish my degree," she pointed out, overriding him, but he looked so distressed that she reached across the table to put a hand on his. "Grissom, it's only an option."

He blew out his breath, fingers linking with hers. "It's just--I'd hate to see you give up such a promising career."

She shrugged, squeezing his fingers gently and then letting go to pick up her mug. "Physics was my first love, Gil. I'd miss the team, and the puzzles, but it might be fun getting back into research. Besides, your career is a lot more important, you've put much more time into it."

Grissom looked like he wanted to contradict her, but she knew her evidence, and he was stuck. "I could always teach."

"That's another option," she agreed gravely, hiding her dismay at the thought. Grissom would make an excellent professor eventually, Sara knew, but he wasn't anywhere near ready to leave the forensics lab yet. She bit into her toast. "Maybe the director'll just knock you back down to a regular CSI," she said indistinctly, and swallowed. "You'd be just one of the peons again."

He returned her smile, face lightening. "Wouldn't Cath love that? She'd be the most likely pick for supervisor."

Sara pursed her lips at the thought of working under the older woman. "Maybe they'd give the slot back to Brass."

Grissom chuckled again. "I honestly don't think he'd take it. Jim'll never admit it, but he's really more comfortable doing straight police work."

"Was he really as much of an ass as I've heard?"

"Oh, yeah." Grissom handed her the jam before she could ask for it. "Not so much with me, but he and Warrick were at each others' throats, and I know he antagonized plenty of other people. He'll never forgive himself for Holly's death, but I think getting busted back to Homicide was a relief for him."

Sorrow deepened the lines around Grissom's eyes for a moment, and this time Sara didn't try to take the pain away; sorrow wasn't guilt, and it was Grissom's way of honoring the determined young rookie.

That was one ghost who didn't haunt her, Sara mused, even though the young woman's murder had been part of the catalyst that had brought Sara to Vegas and Grissom. But then, Sara had never seen Holly's face.

"Well, he's always seemed pretty nice to me," she said, and Grissom's smile reappeared.

"He likes you. He and Warrick get along well now, but he seems to think you're something special."

Sara rolled her eyes to hide the small surge of pleasure. She liked Brass very much, and while his fatherly concern had been uncomfortable for her from time to time, it was on another level extraordinarily comforting as well. "He just seems so sad sometimes."

"He is sad," Grissom agreed, carefully doubling up a strip of bacon. "Life hasn't been easy for him."

Sara finished her omelette and sat back a little. "Didn't you two used to get together for dinner every so often?"

Grissom blinked. "Yeah..."

"You should do that again," she said firmly. "For both your sakes."

"I'd rather have dinner with you."

She smiled at him. "We don't eat together every day. Pick a day when we're not. Seriously, Gil, I think he's lonely."

"Why don't you ask him out, then?" Grissom challenged, raising a brow, though she knew he'd think about what she'd said.

"Maybe I will," she replied, turning over the idea. "I owe him."

"For what?"

"For caring." And she absorbed Grissom's slow nod.

**See Chapter 2**


	2. 2

**Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them; any others are mine, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask me first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.**

**This is a sequel to "In the Center", and as such has spoilers through the end of Season 4 but will not take Season 5 into account. **

**This chapter's for Cincoflex, who read and approved. Thank you!! **

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Grissom took one last look around his living room, making sure he had all that he needed more out of habit than necessity. He could be as absentminded as any professor, but not usually with possessions.

The place was fairly tidy, but he could see dust on some of the insect display cases, as well as other indications that he'd fallen behind a bit on his housekeeping. A shirt was draped over one of his kitchen stools, and a cushion lay on the floor beside the couch.

Bending, he scooped up the throw pillow and flipped it in his hands. He'd kept it with him, that first morning after Sara had kissed him, because it had still carried her scent, but he'd brought it back from California because it had sat on his mother's couch for as long as he could remember, and even though it was worn and faded it was a link to her, something tangible. Sentimental, yes, but in this case he just didn't care.

Lost for a moment in bittersweet memory, he rubbed his palm over the patchy nap, then tossed it into place on the couch. It was time to leave for work.

**xxxx**

"I can't believe this," Warrick muttered under his breath. "Somebody broke in here to steal a painting of _Elvis?_"

He looked around the tiny apartment. It was scrupulously clean, but stuffed to the gills with carpet and doilies and silk plants, and it was already making him claustrophobic. But the ancient tiny woman sitting on the cushion-bedecked couch was nodding at Det. Vega's questions, and there was a prominent space above the wall opposite her, an empty hook and a rectangle of wallpaper surrounded by smaller framed photographs.

Warrick stepped across the room to take a closer look. On close examination, he could see the faint variation in the paper's coloration that told him that something had indeed occupied the space. He eyeballed the empty patch and estimated the missing painting's frame at about two feet by three feet. None of the photographs had been disturbed, it seemed; their edges were all mathematically level. He tuned an ear to the conversation behind him.

"I came back from supper and it was gone," the woman said in an accent that hinted at Boston and a tone that reeked of rage. "My daughter has a key but she wouldn't do this. It's malice, that's what it is."

"Is there someone who would like to distress you?" Vega asked, and Warrick glanced over as he went back to the apartment's door to examine it. The little round woman was nothing like his tall, bony, calm grandmother, but she wore the same fierceness, and Warrick was willing to bet that every employee in her assisted-living complex was secretly terrified of her.

Warrick crouched down to dust the doorknob, and felt sorry for Vega, who was probably going to have to explain that they had very little hope of recovering the woman's stolen painting. If he were still a gambling man, Warrick would have been willing to bet a large sum that the perp had used a key; in a place like this, where the apartments were cleaned daily and caregivers dispensed meds, a half-dozen copies of the key would be floating around, plus whatever copies family members happened to have.

_But...why just take the painting?_ he wondered, unscrewing the lid of a powder jar. _Nobody living here is poor; she's wearing three expensive rings and there's two twenties sitting on the kitchen counter with the mail. _

Warrick shook his head, and dipped his brush. _All they took was what she valued most. That's some sick bastard. _

**xxxx**

"Where're my results, Greg?" Nick demanded, impatient. It had been a very long shift, and his temper was not improved at the sight of the DNA tech grooving to some music that Nick couldn't even identify.

"You can't hurry art," Greg said with dignity, obviously choosing to ignore the fact that Nick had nearly removed the volume knob from Greg's boom box when turning down the sound.

"This isn't art, it's science."

"You can't hurry science, either. Just ask Grissom."

Nick bridled, and Greg backed down. "Thirty seconds," he said crossly. "Geez, everybody's in a bad mood tonight."

"We're entitled," Nick said shortly. They had all been busy on cases all night, but nothing had turned up on any of them; Grissom had said something about statistics, but to Nick it was pure bad luck. And highly annoying.

"Stay away from Sara," Greg added after a moment, in a tone that suggested he didn't care whether Nick did or not. "She's ready to take someone's arm off at the shoulder."

Nick grunted, and beat Greg to the printer as it began to spit out pages. "Nothin'...and still more nothin'."

Greg's agile fingers snatched up the third sheet. "This isn't nothing," he pointed out, and handed over the paper.

Nick's brows rose at the results. "Darn straight. Thanks, Greggo." His mood improving rapidly, he headed out the door in search of his supervisor.

Forty minutes later he walked into the locker room, flinching as a ball of paper flew past his head to land in the trash can. "Whoa!"

"Sorry, Nick." Sara looked sheepish.

"Nice shot." Nick walked towards his locker. "What did that piece of paper ever do to you?"

Sara looked away and started rummaging in her locker. "Nothing. It was just the announcement that the promotion's back on."

Nick sobered. "Oh. Yeah." He'd found a copy in his own locker earlier that night, and had stood staring at it for a couple of minutes in disbelief.

Sara kept her eyes on her task of rearranging the bottles on the top shelf of her locker. "You got one too, huh?"

"Yep." He opened his own locker. "Doesn't make any sense. First it's on, then it's off, then it's on again like it never happened in the first place. We have to apply all over again."

"I'm not going to," Sara said quietly, sitting down on the bench.

After a moment's hesitation, Nick sat down next to her, straddling the seat. "Me either."

They looked at each other for a few seconds, both a little wary; then a grin started to spread over Nick's face, and then Sara's.

"Too much hassle, huh?" she asked.

"Oh yeah." His smile went a little wistful as he remembered the tension between them earlier that year, the coldness. "I didn't like what it did to me. Or...to us."

Sara sighed. "Me either."

Nick held out his arms a little shyly, and Sara leaned into his hug, returning it. "Let Warrick have it," she mumbled against his shoulder before pulling back.

"He doesn't want it either," Nick said. "I don't think anybody does."

She snorted. "It was a stupid idea anyway."

"I hear ya." Nick stood up again and peeled off his shirt. "Are you really that interested in career advancement?"

He emerged from the fabric to see her staring at him, her expression a mix of amusement and annoyance. "Who, me?"

Nick chuckled, and tossed the shirt into his locker, pulling out a clean one. "Okay, yeah. Forgot who I was talking to."

Sara shrugged, the amusement taking precedence. "Administration's boring. For me it's the puzzles."

"Yeah, we all know how you love a challenge." Nick began on his buttons. "Me, I wouldn't mind a little more responsibility, but I think I can wait for now after the last fiasco."

"More power to you," Sara said easily, and closed her locker. "See you tomorrow."

"You're off tonight?"

Sara turned at the door, her smile almost puckish. "Both of us." And before Nick could muster a tease, she was gone.

**xxxx**

It was easier in the dark, somehow. They were both tired from the rush of cases, and while they'd spent a relaxed night together doing mundane chores and simply enjoying each other's company, somehow they'd ended up sitting together on his couch in the darkness. Dawn was still an hour or two away.

Grissom lowered his head a fraction so he could get another whiff of Sara's scent. He never grew tired of holding her like this; some fantasies were just as potent even when fulfilled. Her head against his shoulder, her back against his chest, his arms around her waist and hers folded over them; she stroked his arm idly with one thumb, and he could feel her stomach move as she breathed and her hair slide against his throat. It was as close to perfection as he could hope for.

"What made you change your mind?" Sara asked, her voice almost lazy.

"Hmmm?" He'd been drifting, not thinking so much as just savoring.

"That night. When you asked me if I still wanted a relationship."

The words were casual, but they brought him to full alertness, and he could feel a subtle tension seeping up her spine. Grissom bit his lip; they had started their relationship quickly, but they hadn't really discussed it. On his part, at least, it was due to not wanting to prick the bubble of his dazed bliss, and to his habitual avoidance of emotional topics. But the conversation was inevitable, and he marshaled his thoughts, reminding himself that he had nothing to hide. Not any more.

The thought calmed him a little, and he took a deep breath, letting it out and feeling it ruffle Sara's hair. "It didn't happen that night," he corrected, and felt her tension subside slightly. He tightened his arms around her, trying to reassure. Sara trusted him, but his track record wasn't great, and it was going to take time for him to prove that he was done backing away. "It was a couple of days before." He pressed his cheek against the crown of Sara's head, remembering the unpleasantness of that night. "When Irene..."

He trailed off, unwilling to verbalize the nastiness of finding his very-ex-lover trying to intimidate Sara. She reached up and behind and touched his face, stroking gently. "I remember." Her head turned under his chin and she placed a light kiss at the base of his throat.

Grissom sighed, half in pleasure, half in sadness, and Sara snuggled deeper into his arms. "I don't know when it really happened, Sara, it just all came together that night." He stared into the darkness, barely able to make out the boxy shapes of his bookshelves. "This...is going to take some explaining."

She laughed a little, a comfortable sound. "I'm all ears."

He grinned, even though she couldn't see it. "Do you know how amazingly competent you are?"

"Huh?"

His arms tightened again. "I'm not changing the subject. From the moment I met you, I was struck by your competency. You not only did everything you were assigned, you did it superbly well. It never took you long to get the hang of something, and then you wouldn't stop until you had it exactly right. You were _terrifying._"

She laughed again at the gentle tease, but his guess was that she was blushing, too. "You're extremely competent, Sara, and I don't say that lightly. One of the reasons I asked you to come to Vegas in the first place was I knew I could trust you, not only to follow the evidence, but to follow it thoroughly and correctly."

He sighed again, remembering. "You're never sloppy or careless. And while you sometimes get too emotionally involved in cases--"

Sara stirred, but he shook his head, knowing she could feel it. "We can argue about that later. You can get too involved, but it never seems to stop you." His eyes narrowed in remembered pain, and his voice lowered. "I've seen you bounce back from exhausting shifts, maddening cases, lab explosions, even betrayal. I really believed that you didn't need anyone or anything. You were sufficient unto yourself."

"Gil--" she protested, and he shook his head again.

"I know that wasn't true, but that was how I felt. Sara, no matter what happened, you kept going, tall and strong. When I recovered from my surgery and started to take another look at my life, I couldn't see how I could fit into yours. You didn't seem to need me, and without that need--I thought--nothing would last between us."

He hadn't realized how rough his voice had gotten. Sara twisted in his arms to face him, cupping his jaw, pressing her lips to the corner of his mouth in a brief hard kiss. "It isn't true," she said fiercely. "I do need you, Gil. You have to know that."

Grissom wondered how she realized his doubts when he scarcely dared think about them himself. "I know," he muttered, returning the kiss, willing himself to believe. "I do know."

They huddled together for a long moment, both aware of their own painful vulnerabilities laid open to the other's gaze. Then Grissom tugged Sara back against him, and she slid an arm around his waist, resting her other palm against his chest. "I remembered so much that night, so much that Irene brought back, and it made me think about you, about us. About coming to get you at the police station. Sara, that was when I first started to think that maybe there was a place in your life for someone after all...maybe not me, but you needed someone."

She nodded against his shoulder, and he continued. "Then I remembered California, and Mom's funeral, and I thought that maybe I _could_ be what you needed." His mouth quirked in the darkness. "I wasn't planning on saying anything that night, but you kind of pushed me into it."

Sara chuckled again. "Good thing I did."

"Yes." Grissom reached up and slid his hand into her hair, marveling for the thousandth time that he could. "A very good thing."

Her mouth was warm and alive under his, and it was several minutes before he could bring his mind back to what they had been discussing. "Does that answer your question?"

"Yeah." Her voice was slightly breathless, and she put a hand on his nape and pulled his head back down.

**See Chapter 3**


	3. 3

**Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them; any others are mine, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask me first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.**

**This is a sequel to "In the Center", and as such has spoilers through the end of Season 4 but will not take Season 5 into account. **

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

"I cannot frickin' _believe_ this!"

Catherine watched the young man pace back and forth, alternately clenching his fists and running his hands through his long hair. "Do you know how long I've _worked _on that program?"

"Did it have any monetary value?" Det. Vartan asked patiently, and Catherine took another photograph of the broken window and the fire escape beyond it.

"No, it was just a hobby." Disheartened, the kid collapsed onto his couch, and Catherine stepped over his long legs as she moved to the other side of the tiny efficiency apartment. "It wasn't even a game, man, it was just a project I've been working on for like ten years."

Computers weren't Catherine's forte, but she knew enough to realize that such a timespan meant that the programmer would have had to rework his project again and again as computers evolved. _That would take some dedication. _Of course, she tended to think of programmers as all a little crazy, but the kid's despondency was real. He obviously considered the project of value to him.

"I don't get it," he went on. "I mean, they could have just grabbed the hard drive. But no, they wiped just that program, and took my backups too." He looked baffled. "How did they do it? I didn't tell _anyone_ where I kept those CDs."

_That is kind of weird, _Catherine thought. _Why just that program? Why not the projects he does for money? _

Frowning, she headed back out to her SUV for a box. Maybe Archie could figure out something from the computer itself.

**xxxx**

Grissom's self-assigned case took him to the Strip, to collect evidence from a break-in at a casino. Slipping through the swarms and drifts of people, he marveled dryly at both the chutzpah of the thieves taking on an establishment that was open twenty-four-seven, and the ineptitude of the casino in leaving its backroom area unsecured.

As he slid through the crowd, Grissom's eye caught on a diminutive woman some yards ahead of him, and for an instant her gait was so familiar that it made him stare. The height, the stride, the fluff of silvery hair--but before his heart could hope, he realized that it wasn't her. It couldn't be.

But the moment left him unsettled, and hurting again.

Grissom bumped into Catherine as she emerged from the A/V lab. "How's your case going?" he asked.

"Nowhere," Catherine growled in reply. Her hair was ruffled, and there were circles under her eyes despite her makeup. "Archie and I spent three hours on that computer, and we can't find a thing."

"This is the program robbery, right?" Grissom leaned one hand on the wall, thinking back over assignments. "Those usually don't have much probative evidence, Cath, you know that."

"Yeah, but this one has nothing at all." She ran a hand over her scalp and sighed. "And I do mean nothing. No prints, no fibers. Definitely a professional job."

"The program's valuable, then?"

She shook her head. "No, that's the weird bit. The only person who cares about it is the programmer."

"Obviously someone else does," Grissom pointed out, but gently. Catherine looked pretty stressed. "Look, do you want to go grab some breakfast? I'll buy."

She blew out her breath. "What time is it?"

He glanced at his watch. "Five-thirty."

A smile appeared, edged with slyness. "Ducking out early, Gil? What would the boss say?"

Grissom looked down at her, smirking a little. "Do you want breakfast or not?"

"You're on."

They ate not at the diner, but at a family-style restaurant a little farther away. Grissom liked it; the food was good, the atmosphere quiet, and he'd never been called there in a professional capacity. He ordered coffee and an omelette, but Catherine chose to go the dinner route, asking for chicken pot pie and a soda. Her drink came in an old-fashioned thick-glassed Coca-Cola bottle, like the ones Grissom's mother would buy as a special treat for them. He blinked at it, memory ambushing him again, then pushed the thought away.

"So I hear nobody's applied for the lead CSI position."

Grissom took a sip of coffee. "Don't tell me you want it."

Catherine snorted. "Not a chance. I do enough paperwork as it is."

Neither of them mentioned the extra salary, skirting carefully around the touchy issue of the money Catherine had received from Sam Braun. She unfolded her napkin and put it on her lap. "Well, I hear that the dayshift CSIs are scrambling for it."

"Doesn't surprise me." Grissom rubbed at his beard. He missed Sara, he realized. They spent more of their free time together than apart these days, but she'd said she had errands to run, and he'd taken the opportunity presented to be a better friend to Catherine. Where Sara felt the need to reconnect with Brass, Grissom thought he should start making his relationship with his friend more two-way.

Though he still wasn't quite prepared to tell her that he and Sara were a couple. She didn't know, he knew that; if she did, she wouldn't be able to hide her smugness.

He was just as glad she didn't, for now.

**xxxx**

Sara paced along the aisle of the big store, consulting her mental list. For all her methodical habits as a CSI, she still shopped the way her mother did--starting with a basic list of needs, and then browsing the aisles to see if any bargains caught her eye. _It's probably just what the grocery stores want. _

_Do I care? No. _

She needed conditioner, floor cleaner, paper towels, cereal; she'd come to the organic grocery store because it had the best selection of fresh fruits and vegetables besides the Saguaro Square farmers' market, and it was a lot closer, with better hours.

And it had lemon juice in gallon containers. _Much easier than ordering it from the restaurant supply house. _

With that thought on her mind, Sara collected a couple of jugs. The stuff kept, and sooner or later there would be another decomp. Turning into the personal care aisle, she found her conditioner, and then a now-familiar bottle caught her eye. The last time she'd seen that logo, it had been upside-down.

_And I'll bet Grissom doesn't have another one yet. He said he had to go shopping soon. _

Without hesitation, she snagged the bottle of shampoo.

**xxxx**

Grissom opened his front door at the muffled thud, and was both surprised and pleased to see Sara on the other side, balancing on one foot and her arms full of bags.

"Oh, good, you're still up," she said, and put her foot down.

"I thought you weren't coming by," he replied, but couldn't help grinning. He held the door open for her, and she swept past with a quick kiss to his chin, evading his reach for one of the bags.

"I wasn't," she replied, putting her burdens on the breakfast bar. "But I got you some stuff, and I was going to call but my cellphone's dead, and--"

Grissom put his hands on her shoulders and cut her off with a kiss. "I'm glad to see you any time," he reminded her, and she relaxed under his touch, grinning.

"Well, I couldn't get out my keys with my arms full. Have you eaten?"

"I had breakfast with Catherine." He let her go and peered into the nearest bag. "You?"

"Nah. I'll grab some crackers--"

Bags of fruit, and a couple of bottles of something. "No you won't. Do you want pancakes, or a sandwich?"

He looked up to see her plant her hands on her hips, and shook his head. "Forget it, Sara. You're not going to win this one."

Her glare had no force, and he let it slide off him, rummaging in the next bag. She didn't let him take care of her half as often as he liked, but today he was prepared to insist.

He didn't have to. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her shoulders relax in a sigh, and knew she was giving in. Straightening, he gave her a smile. "So what did you get me?"

**xxxx**

Her eyes popped open in the dark, and it was such a _relief_ to wake, to emerge from the inexplicable terror of the nightmare, the horror that made her want to scream right along with the victims. Sometimes she did scream, but she didn't remember doing it this time.

As ever, she was curled up into a huddle, hands fisted and knees pressed against her chest; the fear was still washing over her, but she knew it would recede, and eventually she would be able to move.

And then there was a rustle, and a voice heavy with sleep. "Sara?"

She couldn't force her voice out, but a warm hand touched her shoulder, and a dim shape pushed itself up on one elbow next to her. "Sara?" Grissom's voice was clearer now. "Are you all right?"

"Nightmare," she managed through a clenched jaw.

"Oh." And with the simplicity that was one of the things she loved about him, he reached over and gathered her up.

Living heat, and the comforting clean smell of him; the smoothness of his skin under her cheek, the prickle of his beard against her temple; the feel of arms around her, of someone willing to hold her against the terrors in her own mind. "Tighter," she muttered, and he complied, pressing her closer until she could scarcely breathe. It was exactly what she needed, the hard pressure real and tangible, shredding the clinging film of her dream.

Slowly, her muscles unlocked, and when the tears hit his chest Grissom didn't say anything, just stroked her arm with one hand, and she didn't have the energy to explain that she wasn't crying because of the nightmare, she was crying because she had never had anyone to hold her after she woke.

Until now.

She didn't remember falling asleep again, and when she woke in the afternoon her muscles ached, but only a little. Grissom didn't ask, but Sara knew that he was just giving her space. If she wanted to talk about it, he would listen.

_And maybe now I can. _

**See Chapter 4**


	4. 4

**Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them; any others are mine, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask me first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.**

**This is a sequel to "In the Center", and as such has spoilers through the end of Season 4 but will not take Season 5 into account. **

**Thank you all so much for your wonderful feedback! It's very reassuring. **

**Two angsty chapters...**

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

They were sharing a takeout lunch in his office, inadvertent intimacy; Nick had been scheduled to join them, but had been diverted to another crime scene on his way back. His double-double animal style and large fries sat waiting for him in the bag on Grissom's desk, but the two CSIs saw no reason to let their own food get cold.

"Salt shaker please?" Sara asked absently, never lifting her eyes from the file she was studying, and Grissom retrieved the cylinder from his desk drawer and handed it to her. He watched her salt her fries, shuddering a little; he only kept the stuff in his office for use in experiments. "Is that really healthy?" _And when did I start sounding like my mother? _

Sara looked up with a grin. "It's the only thing I put salt on, Griss. That and my dad's potato soup."

Grissom chuckled. "Fair enough."

They munched in silence for a while; Sara had just finished her veggie wrap and was idly watching Grissom lick ketchup from his fingers when her beeper went off. She glanced down at it, sighed, and flipped her folder shut. "The doctor calls."

Grissom polished off a last fry. "Let me know what he says."

Sara nodded and put the file on his desk, rising to stretch. Grissom took in the line of her body in silent admiration, and noted with a now-familiar pulse of pleasure the dangling pearl puzzle she wore tonight. He had forgotten how much _fun_ it could be to give other people gifts.

"Oh, I was meaning to tell you," Sara said, dropping the stretch. "I want to put in for Christmas vacation now, while it's still available."

Grissom looked at her blankly. "You never go home for Christmas."

She laughed a little. "I'm going this year. Actually, my parents get Christmas day, but I'm planning on spending most of it in Oakland at my aunt's old place." She put one hand on her hip, still smiling. "C'mon, Grissom, you're always telling me I should take more time off."

He nodded, making the movement slow to give him time to think, to master his dismay. Grissom hadn't realized how much he'd been looking forward to spending Christmas with Sara, just the two of them, and while they hadn't actually discussed the holiday, he'd assumed--

_Never assume, _he reminded himself ruefully. He opened the datebook in which he kept scheduling requests, flipping the pages and trying to ignore the tightness in his throat. It was going to be his first Christmas without even a TTY conversation with his mother--his first ever--and he had been holding hard to his plan not only because of the delight of spending time with Sara, but because it wouldn't be so hard.

"So," Sara said brightly, putting her hands in her labcoat pockets. "You'd better call in the favors Catherine owes you, Griss."

He frowned, puzzled. "I beg your pardon?"

"If she squawks about having to work Christmas, you can just remind her that she'll get to play supervisor for a week," Sara added, looking thoughtfully around his crowded office. "I know how you get, working up to a holiday. You're going to need at least three days to recover." She grinned at him. "Trust me, even in winter my aunt's place is worth it."

Realizing that his mouth was hanging open, Grissom shut it. "Right," he said weakly, but Sara didn't seem to notice. Winking, she blew out of his office, leaving him speechless as she had so often before. Though this time, it felt better.

_She wants me to go with her. _Warm amazement flooded through him at the thought. True, they had been officially seeing each other for six months now; true, Sara had waited for him through years of misunderstanding and heartache; true, his confidence level had grown enough for him to make certain plans for the holiday. But something in him still refused to believe that it was all quite real, that it would last.

He laughed a little at himself. _She didn't even ask. She...she just assumed I would be going with her. As though it were the most natural thing in the world. _

For some reason, Grissom didn't feel like calling her to task for making an assumption. Not this time.

**xxxx**

Nick wondered briefly if he'd somehow managed to piss Grissom off without noticing, then discarded the idea. The older man had been preoccupied when he'd called with this assignment, but not cold. _And somebody has to take the boring ones. Guess it's me this time. _

He dutifully tried to pay attention as Mr. Winters nattered on and on about the value of the stolen rabbit--its pedigree, its championships, its offspring--but the man was just annoying. Nick half-suspected that the prize bunny had simply escaped its own hutch, perhaps fed up with the life of a show rabbit.

But a movement caught his eye, and Nick turned from the empty hutch to see a little girl--maybe nine years old--standing at the house's back door. She was plump and pale and clad in bright pink pajamas, but it was her woebegone expression that melted Nick's heart. Angostura's Bittersweet Baby might represent prestige to Winters, but Winters' daughter had obviously lost her beloved pet.

Nick gave her a small smile, and she drifted closer as Winters' ringing cellphone interrupted his tirade. "Hey there," Nick said quietly as Winters stepped away to answer his cell. "What's your name?"

"Alice," she replied, her voice soft and shy. "Are you a detective?"

"I'm a crime scene analyst," Nick said. "Alice, do you know what happened to your rabbit? Did somebody leave the cage open by accident?"

She shook her head firmly. "Nope. Somebody _took_ Babe."

Nick sighed, looking without much hope at the hutch. "Looks like it."

**xxxx**

It had started out such a simple thing. A bit of a disagreement. They were both tired, but he wanted to go out for breakfast; he didn't feel like cooking. Sara wanted to stay in, or call for takeout. He didn't want takeout.

Now all of a sudden they were yelling, and part of him was appalled at what they were doing, but he couldn't seem to stop the words that were pouring out of him. "What is your problem, Sara? It's just dinner. You're sure not going to cook it!"

Which was unfair, and he knew it; the reason he did the cooking was because Sara would ruin all but the simplest of dishes. Her eyes flashed with hurt and anger as she shouted back.

"It's always about what you want, isn't it? I worked two doubles in a row, I'm too tired to get cleaned up again and go out! You know it would take hours!"

She could be so _stubborn. _The mild comment that they didn't have to go anywhere fancy was lost under a rush of anger. "You'd rather eat greasy Chinese food?"

Sara flipped up her hands dismissively. "You know what? I'm not hungry anymore. Do what you want, Grissom, I've lost my appetite."

"You need to eat!" She was too thin already, too tired, and he wouldn't be manipulated. "I won't be your excuse for skipping another meal."

"Oh, so I'm anorexic now?" Her cheeks were flushed, and he could feel his own face heat.

"Will you just cooperate for once?!"

She paled, then flushed again. "I'm not doing this," she said, her mouth tight, and snatched up her shoulder bag and keys. "I am so not doing this!"

Grissom's mouth opened, but words failed him as Sara swept out of the townhouse, barely pausing to shove her feet into the sandals she'd kicked off in the entranceway. The slam of the door echoed in the main room, which suddenly seemed terribly empty. Grissom blinked, trying to figure out what had just happened.

_We've never...I haven't.... _He couldn't seem to formulate a complete thought. She was gone.

Gone.

The emptiness of the room was replicated in his gut. _She's gone. She left. I've driven her away. _

Grissom moved slowly to the couch and sat down, noting blankly that his hands were shaking, though he didn't know if it was leftover rage or something else. _I can't believe I did that. I knew...but I was starting to think maybe...._

His chest ached with the hollowness that was growing, pressing up against his heart. _Idiot. You knew this would happen. You knew it wouldn't last. _He leaned forward to put his elbows on his knees, bending over the pain, trying to control it. _Sooner or later, she'd get fed up with you, and she'd leave. You knew it would happen. _

A small noise escaped him, and he cut it off as soon as he realized it was coming from him, but he recognized it--the inner wail of shock and pain that comes with sudden loss. He struggled for rational thought, but it remained out of reach. Sara was gone, and while his tomorrows were still there, he wished they weren't, because they would only be empty.

Half-blind with pain, he found himself on his feet as instinct kicked in, and he retreated.

**xxxx**

Sara bit her lip as she mounted the stairs, not at all sure of her reception. She lost her temper fairly frequently, but for Grissom it was a lot rarer, and they'd never fought before--not like this. They'd had disagreements, sure, but nothing that went further than a few minutes' annoyance. She figured Grissom had probably calmed down by now--she'd been gone for at least three hours--but the lump in her throat was in anticipation of icy silence. When Grissom was truly angry, he didn't go halfway.

She frowned when she put her key in the lock and found that it wasn't engaged. _I guess he just stomped off without locking it. I sure didn't bother. _When she swung the door open, the room beyond was empty of his presence. "Grissom?" she called hesitantly, but there was no answer.

_Maybe he's not here. _Sara locked the door behind her, frowning more deeply. His car was still in its space in the parking lot; maybe he'd gone out for a walk to blow off steam, though that wasn't his usual method. She dropped her purse near the door, looking around. Nothing met her gaze but sunlight. _Did he go to bed?_

Slowly, reluctantly, she stepped out of her sandals. Guilt, mixed with residual anger, made an uneasy mix in her stomach. Neither of them had been particularly mature during their fight, and she wasn't looking forward to making her apologies.

Silent on bare feet, she padded down the hallway. The bedroom door was open halfway, and Grissom lay on top of the bed covers, still dressed. Sara sighed at the sight of his back, relieved that he was _there. _"Gil?"

The soft word seemed to have no effect. She walked around to the far side of the bed, not sure whether he was asleep or sulking, and then sucked in a breath.

Grissom lay curled in a tight huddle, his arms wrapped around a small bundle that she recognized as the t-shirt she'd left lying across the bed. His eyes were shut, his mouth soft with sleep, but she could see lines of strain as well. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she gripped his shoulder gently, alarmed. "Gil? Gil, wake up." _Crap. Did something happen? Is it someone from work? _

He stirred, eyes opening, and Sara bent a little closer. "Gil, what's wrong? What happened?"

Grissom's gaze cleared, and for one long moment he only stared at her. Sara stared back, figuring he needed a minute to wake up, but when his lips moved silently, she reached out to cup his face in her palm. "Are you okay?" she asked worriedly.

His own hand came up and pressed hers against his cheek. "Sara," he said hoarsely.

"Yeah." Sara frowned again. Grissom could be slow to wake up, but this was getting weird.

He sat up slowly, as though every muscle hurt, and then reached out and pulled her into his arms, sitting back against the headboard. Sara relaxed into his grip, but she was still puzzled, and her alarm returned when she realized that he was shaking. "Gil, what's the matter? Are--"

"Shhh." One of Grissom's hands came up to lie feather-light on her lips, then slid round to draw her head onto his shoulder. His arms tightened around her, and she wrapped her own around his waist and let him hold her, trying to keep her impatience in check. Why he needed her there so badly would--hopefully--be revealed soon.

Sara estimated that almost ten minutes passed before Grissom spoke again. "I thought you left," he said quietly.

It took her a few seconds to figure out what, exactly, he meant, and then she stiffened, horrified. "Gil, I would never--" She lifted her head, but he ducked his own, closing his eyes and dropping his arms to his sides. Sara took his head in her hands, turning it up. "Gil, look at me. Look at me."

His eyes opened reluctantly, and the pain there made her ache. "I didn't leave. I won't leave," she told him softly, leaving aside logic for the moment. "You can't get rid of me that easily." She stroked her thumbs over his cheekbones. "Do you believe me?" He had to believe her, he had to. If she had known--

His eyes searched hers for a long, hurting moment, and then he sighed, lifting his arms again and lacing his fingers behind her neck. "Yes." He drew her head forward until their foreheads touched.

"I'm sorry...I'm so sorry," she whispered, the lump back in her throat at the realization of what he'd been thinking. She hadn't meant to trigger his insecurity. "I just didn't want to argue."

"I'm sorry too," he said, equally quietly. "I should have trusted you."

They sat there for a long moment, breathing each other's breath, accepting the hurt they had dealt one another. Finally Sara chuckled, her voice a little shaky. "We need to learn how to fight right," she told him softly.

His mouth twitched in a slight smile. "Learning experience," he offered, and she snorted, and gave him another hug.

"Do you--" Sara started, but Grissom's grunt cut her off.

"I don't want to talk right now," he said, and she could hear the stress in his voice. "Can we just stay here? For a while at least?"

"Absolutely. Let me go for a sec."

His hands slid off of her, and she stood to pull off her shorts. Grissom only watched her, never taking his eyes from her, but the hunger in them was emotional rather than sexual, and Sara realized again, with an inward shudder, that the past few hours must have seemed to him a famine after a feast.

Hiding her dismay, she put her hands on her hips and cocked a brow. "That won't be very comfortable."

Grissom blinked, then swung his legs off the side of the bed and peeled off his pants. Sara helped him pull his shirt off, and then he simply enveloped her in his arms and pulled her down next to him. Sara wrapped herself around him, trying wordlessly to reassure, and rested her head on his shoulder. She rose and fell with his deep sigh, and placed a gentle kiss on his collarbone, and felt him rub his cheek against her hair. And then they simply held each other until sleep took them.

**See Chapter 5**


	5. 5

**Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them; any others are mine, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask me first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.**

**This is a sequel to "In the Center", and as such has spoilers through the end of Season 4 but will not take Season 5 into account. **

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Oddly enough, it was O'Reilly who saved her.

The assignment slip said "robbery", and when she got there, the big detective was waiting on the front lawn, his hands shoved in his pants pockets.

"Wife woke up and found the window open and her husband's prize fishing rod gone," he reported as Sara came abreast.

"Something the matter?" she asked. The lines of O'Reilly's face were a little deeper than usual. But he just shrugged, and gestured her towards the house.

The elderly lady who let them in was quietly dignified, and fully dressed in a blouse and slacks despite having risen from her bed to call the police and her husband. She offered them coffee, but Sara refused, wanting to get started gathering whatever evidence was there to be found. The house was well-kept, she noted as she inspected and dusted. Mrs. Franklin had reported feeling a draft and waking to find the window in her husband's den open and the pole gone from its display stand. Given its value, Sara wasn't surprised it had been taken, but she did wonder why the expensive pen set on the desk and the humidor full of Cuban cigars had not been touched. As was so often true, there was little hard evidence--all the fingerprints probably belonged to the Franklins, and Sara found no distinguishing footmarks or betraying fibers.

They were taking their leave of Mrs. Franklin in the front hall when the door opened and an equally elderly man stepped through. He was a tall man, a little stooped with age but still strong, and his eyes raked over Sara and the detective in a way that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up, but she merely nodded politely as O'Reilly explained why they were there.

"Is there any chance of recovering my property?" he asked brusquely, cutting off the detective mid-word, and O'Reilly exchanged glances with Sara before turning back.

"Not much, sir, I'm sorry," he admitted. "This was an expert job."

Mr. Franklin's face darkened a little with anger, but he nodded, all but ignoring his wife, who was standing quietly in the background.

"We'll let you know as soon as we have anything," O'Reilly concluded. When the older man said nothing more, he turned towards the door, and Sara preceded him out.

"I was going to ask you, Sidle," O'Reilly said, then halted halfway down the sidewalk with a grunt and bent over to tie his flapping shoelace. "Hold on."

Sara put her weight on one foot and waited.

In the quiet came the sound of a raised voice through an open window, freezing her blood. "You stupid bitch!"

But it was the light crack of a slap and the muffled cry of pain that made her move.

O'Reilly made a snatch for her and missed as she bolted back towards the front door, reaching for her weapon. But before she could touch the knob he caught her, jerking her to a stop. "Stand down, Sidle," he hissed over the sound of another blow and curse. "This is my job."

She was shaking, Sara realized, with an anger so huge that it was all she could do to focus. But she saw her own fury mirrored in the detective's eyes and nodded, moving back just enough to let him pass.

O'Reilly paused a second, centering himself, then turned the knob, even as the stomach-turning noises continued. "Mr. Franklin!"

The tableau in the hallway heated Sara's blood from ice to boil. Mrs. Franklin was still standing, barely; she leaned against the elegant little table in the hall, one arm cradling the other wrist. Blood smeared her lower lip, and her carefully-coiffed hair was mussed and tangled.

Her husband stood over her, his fist in the air even as he turned. "What--get out of my house!" he snarled, face flushed red with rage.

"Step away from Mrs. Franklin, please," O'Reilly ordered, his voice polite, firm, and frozen.

The elderly man's face darkened further. "This is my house and my wife. You have no right--"

"Citizen in distress," O'Reilly returned calmly. "Ma'am, are--"

Mrs. Franklin wobbled, and Sara darted forward, catching the woman as she sagged to her knees. Mr. Franklin's face went almost purple, and he grabbed Sara's shoulder in a bruising grip.

She snarled. She couldn't let Mrs. Franklin fall, but the old man's strength was threatening to drag her off-balance, and she had no hands free to tear him apart.

And then the painful squeeze was gone. "You're under arrest for assault," O'Reilly rumbled as he pinned Mr. Franklin against the wall and cuffed him. Sara had never seen him look so fierce. "You'll press charges, Sidle?"

She nodded tightly. "Hell yeah."

Mr. Franklin began to curse again, but O'Reilly ignored him, rattling off the Miranda and then calling for an ambulance. Sara shifted the half-conscious woman in her arms and watched with savage satisfaction.

**xxxx**

"I didn't provoke him," Sara said, her voice icy.

"I know," Grissom replied quietly. "O'Reilly gave me a full report, Sara. You did exactly as you should have."

He watched as her jaw shifted. She was still furious, and with reason, he knew. She had to blow off some of the steam, and he hoped she'd do it now. Fortunately, she'd closed the door when she'd come in.

"She's not pressing charges, Grissom." He relaxed a trifle as Sara started to pace. This righteous rage he could deal with as her supervisor; the despair and pain would have to wait until they got home. "He's been beating her for almost forty years, and she won't do a thing about it."

"He'll still be charged with assaulting a police officer," Grissom noted, keeping his tone calm and firmly repressing a chill. O'Reilly had been quick, Franklin hadn't had time to more than grab Sara's arm, but he could have really hurt her. Grissom knew such dangers were part of the risks they ran, but-- _I don't have to like it. _

"Yeah, and that'll get him what? He's over seventy, they'll probably reduce his sentence anyway." Sara's face was flushed. "She'll go right back to him, and he'll go right on smacking her around any time he feels like it."

"You can't help everyone, Sara." She glared, and he returned a steady stare. "She's a mature adult and she has to make her own choices. Her husband's arrest may give her the opportunity she needs to change."

"Maybe." Sara unclenched her fists with a visible effort, halting her pacing in front of him. "I'm going to go see her this afternoon, Grissom, so don't even try to stop me."

"Wouldn't dream of it." As Sara calmed a bit more, he gave her a small smile, and straightened to rub his hands up and down her upper arms. She sighed heavily and closed her eyes for a moment.

"I want you to go home." Her eyes snapped open, and he gave her a stern look and squeezed her arms lightly. "You're too keyed up. The robbery evidence can wait. There's only an hour left in the shift, Sara, don't argue with me."

She tilted her head, and he could see the calculation in her eyes, but apparently his promise not to interfere with her visit to Mrs. Franklin was an equal trade. "Fine," she said, slightly grumpy. "I'll see you later?"

"Absolutely." Grissom let her go, suppressing his concern. He'd be home not long after, and could do more there than just give her platitudes.

**xxxx**

Sunlight was trying to make its way around the blinds, but the room was mostly still in cool shadow. Grissom sat in his armchair and watched Sara on the couch, listening carefully to her. Very carefully.

"I spent my high school summers volunteering at the hospital." Sara rested her elbows on her knees, staring at nothing, and he wanted very much to go to her and surround her with himself, to make her feel better, but he held still. Now was not the time.

She laughed a little, but the sound wasn't very amused. "It's funny to think of it now, but for the first two summers I helped out with some of the sick kids, the ones that were strong enough to come to the playroom. We used to make puppets and things. But after that I switched down to the emergency room, doing filing and answering phones, stuff like that. They never had enough personnel."

Sara paused for a moment, looking back into time. "I saw it over and over, Gil. Women coming in with black eyes, broken ribs, bruises on their arms and throats and ankles. Burn marks, from cigarettes. Missing teeth. A lot of times it was the same women. And most of them had one thing in common." Her face hardened, the bones standing out starkly. "They all said it was an accident. They bumped into doors, tripped going down the stairs, spilled something while they were cooking--the excuses went on and on. Except they all had this scared look in their eyes, this hopeless look."

Her hands locked together in a tight knot of tendon and bone. "A lot of them were poor, but we got a few of the wealthier ones too. Sometimes their abusers would come in with them, all upset and solicitous, or just really possessive. It used to make me so mad, but there wasn't anything I could do. Nobody pays attention to a teenager."

Her voice shook a little, and Grissom realized it was with anger. "I wanted to yell at them. How could they do that? How could they go back, again and again? How could they expose their kids to that? We got the kids, too," she added. "More burns on them, and sometimes belt marks." She bit her lip.

"I know--there weren't as many resources fifteen years ago. I know that." Her gaze was fierce on nothing. "But it didn't hurt any less when two of them came back in ambulances, one with a gunshot to the chest, the other beaten unconscious."

Sara lifted her head at last. "They both died, Gil. Their abusers killed them."

Her eyes were brimming, and he couldn't stand it any longer. He got up, sat down beside her, and just put an arm around her shoulders. He really wanted to hug her hard, to pull her into himself until nothing could touch her, but he couldn't, and anyway she'd never let him. His Sara always fought her own battles.

This time, however, she did let him comfort her. Gradually, she leaned against him; some of the tautness left her in a sigh, and she went on.

"I saw the rape cases, too. The women--the girls--who came in with their clothes torn and their lips bloody, or the ones who came in two days after the fact, looking white and scared, wanting a pregnancy test. The ones who wouldn't let anyone do a rape kit on them, because they were ashamed, or because they didn't think anyone would believe them." She shook her head, and turned it to bury her face in his chest. "You know, that's part of the reason I went for physics? It seemed so clean, after that. There's no injustice in physics. No lies." Her voice was a little muffled, but he could still make out the words. "I guess I was running away."

"Sara, no." Grissom stroked her hair with his free hand. "No. You're a brilliant scientist. Studying physics was a worthy use of your gifts."

Her hands slowly unlocked, her body twisted until she could slide her arms around him. "And yet I ended up in law enforcement. Ironic, huh?"

"You could go back, if you wanted," he pointed out, though the thought of not working with her anymore troubled him deeply. She shook her head, rubbing her face against his shirt, and he could feel the small hot seep of tears through the cloth.

"No. Forensics is what I do now. And every once in a while it does make a difference." She sighed, then chuckled tiredly. "I'm sorry. I've been gushing all over you--"

She started to pull back, but Grissom spread his fingers over the back of her head to hold her in place. "Remember what I told you about leaning on someone once in a while?"

Her head stilled, but he could feel the tautness in her body. "Uh-huh. And I said I didn't want to make a habit of it."

Making a split-second decision, Grissom let her head go, putting that arm around her as well and shifting his weight. Sara's head jerked up as he slid her body onto his and leaned back against the arm of the couch, holding her against him. She braced her hands on his chest, staring down at him in surprise.

"I may not know much about relationships," he said sternly, "but I do know that partners support each other. You can lean on me, Sara." She opened her mouth, but he cut her off. "It doesn't make you weak. It makes you human. And it makes me feel good to know that I can help." He let one corner of his mouth twitch up. "If this is going to be an equal relationship, you have to let me be the strong one once in a while."

Sara stared at him for a moment longer, then giggled weakly, which made him smirk. She laid her head down on his chest and hugged him back, and the tension ran out of her body as though someone had cut her strings.

"I'm afraid I'll break into pieces, if I do," she whispered after a while.

"Then I'll help you put them back together again," he replied, knowing exactly what she meant. Somehow, breaking down in front of someone was the ultimate vulnerability; the only difference was that he had already gone through it, and Sara had taken care of him then, holding his shattered self together until he was able to go on.

The thing was, he was a new shape afterwards. _I'll help you,_ he thought, savoring her warm weight against him. _And if one of your pieces gets mixed up with mine, all the better. You already have a piece of me._

_I think you always have. _

**See Chapter 6**


	6. 6

**Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them; any others are mine, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask me first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.**

**This is a sequel to "In the Center", and as such has spoilers through the end of Season 4 but will not take Season 5 into account. **

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Sara sat staring at the array of files in front of her. Something was nagging at her, but she couldn't quite tease it out of her subconscious. Reaching out, she flipped through the pages of one file, letting her mind unfocus a little.

Warrick came into the breakroom in search of a soda. "Hey, if you're having a slow night I can use some help with this assault at the Fez."

She blinked up at him. "Wasn't that the crappy motel where they found the serial killer victim in the ice machine?"

"Yep." He pulled a can from the fridge. "That was a whole lot more interesting."

"Bucket brigade, bucket brigade," Sara muttered, and they shared a grin. "I just can't figure out these robberies. I know there's a pattern, but I can't find it."

Warrick popped the top on his soda and leaned over to look at the files, reflecting that Sara must be _really _bored if she was working on such hopeless cases. "What have you got?"

She tapped each file as she spoke. "Stolen computer program, stolen flute, stolen rabbit--" She ignored Warrick's snort of amusement. "--Stolen painting."

"Oh yeah, I remember that one," Warrick said. "It was strange. Somebody broke into this old lady's apartment and stole her painting of Elvis." He chuckled. "It was classic--black velvet, believe it or not."

Sara leaned back in her chair, amused. "It's amazing what people think is precious."

"Yeah, she was completely pissed. Said it was the thing she treasured most."

He knew that look. It was the "Sara look"--the total intensity as she brought her focus to bear. "Say that again."

Warrick lifted a brow, wondering what it was she had scented. "She was pissed, it was what she treasured most?"

She scrabbled through the papers. "That's what this lady said. The flute belonged to her son, and Alex's notes say that she said it was her most treasured possession."

Intrigued, Warrick picked up the file with a familiar precise handwriting. "Nick says here that the little girl whose rabbit was stolen was heartbroken."

"And Cath says this guy had been working on his program for years."

Warrick turned to hand her the last file, but to his surprise she was already at the door. Curious, he trailed her down the hallway as she strode into Grissom's darkened office. She barely took the time to flip the light switch before yanking open a file drawer and pawing through it. "You on break?" she asked without looking up.

Warrick had stuff to do, but none of it was that urgent. "I can be."

"Here." She thrust a handful of folders at him. "Check these." She took another handful herself and dropped into a chair.

Warrick sat down next to her without a qualm, knowing that Grissom wouldn't care where they worked if they were running this hot. "What am I looking for?"

"Any comments by the officer or criminalist that the item stolen was the victim's most important possession." Sara paged rapidly through one folder and set it aside, then opened another. "Like here. The woman says that the necklace was the only jewelry taken but it was the one she valued most."

"Gotcha." Intrigued, Warrick opened his first folder.

Within forty-five minutes, they'd put together a decent number of files, and Warrick had to pull himself away to get back to his own case. "Keep me posted?" he asked as he left Sara behind, and she made a distracted grunting noise that he took for agreement.

He met Grissom in the hallway, and jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. "Sara's onto something," he said, and the older man raised his brows and nodded.

"Sounds good," he replied, and then they were past each other.

Grissom walked into his office to find Sara sitting not on a chair, but on the floor; small stacks of folders surrounded her in a half-circle, and her lab coat was pooled around her folded legs. "You can use the desk," he noted mildly.

She ignored that. "I think I've got it."

He crouched down outside the ring of files. "Explain."

Sara flipped back to the first page of the folder she held. "Only one item was stolen in each of these robberies. Each time, the item taken was the one thing that the victim valued the most." She gestured at the stacks. "They go all the way back to 1998; it started with just a few per year, but they've been escalating steadily. Ten reported already this year, and who knows how many were unreported."

Grissom frowned thoughtfully. "Are there any other commonalities?"

Sara grimaced. "Only that they're all unsolved." He snorted, and she grinned up at him briefly. "Well, not quite. They all have a major lack of evidence. I mean, nobody hopes for too much on these things, but there's one you did, for instance--"

She fished in a stack and handed him one file. "--And I know you didn't cut any corners. No prints, no fibers; whoever's pulling these knows how to pick locks and open windows. The scary thing is, how does this person know what each vic considers their most precious possession? I mean, it's not always obvious."

Grissom pursed his lips. "No links between vics?"

"I haven't checked yet, but I don't think so. Different ages, different races, different locations. It's weird, Grissom."

"Well, you can check later. I need you to go out and help Nick; he got snagged on his way back by Det. Vartan for a collection at the Aladdin and he needs a hand."

Sara grumbled a little, but there was nothing particularly urgent about these cases. "Can I put these away first?"

Grissom stood up with a chuckle. "I'll do it. Go help Nick."

She sighed, and accepted his hand to help her rise. "Sure, boss."

He wrinkled his nose at her, and she laughed and left. Grissom grinned to himself and crouched again to gather up the files, being careful to keep them in order. Sara's insight would probably turn out to be of no use in such low-evidence cases, but he'd seen her pull rabbits out of hats before, and he wasn't discounting anything just yet.

They met for breakfast later at the diner, inviting Greg and Nick along, but both men had other plans. So it was just the two of them, sharing a pot of coffee. By now it was automatic for Grissom to take the bacon that came with Sara's pancakes, and for her to pick the banana slices from his fruit bowl.

Sara sliced desultorily into her third pancake, sopping it in syrup and reflecting contentedly that a year before she would not have thought her situation possible--sitting across the table from her supervisor, both of them enjoying a meal and the time together. Even the pauses in their conversation were comfortable.

Popping the last bite into her mouth, she glanced up to see Grissom looking...distracted. He was cradling his coffee cup in both hands, elbows on the table, and was staring across the aisle at the diner's counter. "Something the matter, Griss?"

His head turned back to her before his eyes did. "Hmm? No, sorry."

She smiled, a little concerned at the faint strain in his face. "What were you looking at?"

He blinked, and his mouth twitched. "Nothing. Just a glass on the counter."

She arched a brow inquiringly. "And what's so special about this glass?"

"It has a lipstick print."

Sara turned in her seat to look at it, seeing only a used place setting. Much as she hated to admit it, nothing about it stood out to her. "And...?"

When she looked back to him, his expression was sad. "It's the same shade my mother wore."

A blank statement on the face of it, but she immediately knew what meaning was carried in the words. With a freedom she wouldn't have had just a few months before, she put her hand over his, and felt him turn it palm-up so his fingers could mesh with hers. "I keep seeing things that make me think of her," he said lowly. "I just keep getting reminded."

She couldn't think of anything comforting to say, so she just squeezed his hand a little tighter.

**xxx**

They all hated these cases. Catherine's lips were pressed white; Warrick looked worried and Nick stern; and Grissom--well, Grissom was driven. Sara had seen him like this only a couple of times before--most notably with the Milander serial killer--but Sara shuddered when she remembered how the other case had gone. If there was one thing Grissom truly loathed, it was the exploitation of children.

Jeremy Moss Caffrey, Jr., had been born two months after his young father's untimely death in a car accident. His equally young mother, Susanne, had mourned deeply at the loss of her beloved husband, but friends and family said that the birth of Jeremy had seemed to heal her, transforming her from a grief-stricken widow to a mother luminous with bittersweet joy. She was a natural mother, they agreed, able to adore her baby without becoming obsessive.

Until he disappeared.

Grissom pulled everyone in on the case, making one of his rare but never-contested decrees that the scene of the Caffrey kidnapping would be the only crime scene in Vegas that night. His eyes glittered with fury, and his CSIs peeled off to their assigned tasks without argument or delay; his temper was clearly on a very short leash.

Sara worked the nursery along with Grissom, taking photos as directed, following his crisp instructions without the annoyance that his behavior would generate at any other time. For one thing, time was crucial in kidnapping cases, and for another, there was an exception to every rule. She didn't even feel slighted right now. Jeremy was more important.

She had changed her camera for a notepad and was taking down Grissom's terse comments when she saw something flicker across his face, an anguish almost immediately shut away. Hesitating, she finally stepped over to the door of the small room and pushed it almost shut, biting her lip. She was about to break the rules. "Grissom..."

His shoulders stiffened where he stood at the open window, but then they slumped a little. Sara paced forward until she was standing behind him--not so close as to break propriety, but close enough to offer silent support.

"There won't be a ransom note," he said in a low tone, as though his voice might carry to the frantic mother hovering over her telephone. "There's no motive for ransom--she has no real money and she doesn't seem to have anything that anybody would want."

"Except Jeremy," Sara said, her throat a little tight. Children made her nervous, but the idea of a two-month-old baby in the hands of someone cruel enough to steal him turned her stomach.

"Lay it out for me," Grissom requested, still not turning, and Sara organized her thoughts.

"Mrs. Caffrey's mother went to bed at about eight p.m., and after nursing Jeremy, Mrs. Caffrey also retired, at eight-forty. She says she fell asleep fairly quickly, and expected to be woken at about midnight by Jeremy crying. Instead, she woke at twelve-thirty and was immediately aware that something was wrong. She came into the nursery and found the window open and Jeremy gone." Sara glanced around the room, her gaze touching on the changing table, the rocking chair, the little airplane mobile. "The baby monitor was still on."

Grissom was silent, and Sara finally offered a theory. "Are you thinking black-market adoption?"

"That's the most likely motive," he answered, but his tone was flat.

"But you don't think that's it."

He finally turned to face her, and his face was drawn. "I have no evidence to the contrary."

"But your gut says otherwise." Sara cocked her head. "So does mine."

Grissom raised his brows a little in acknowledgment. "We still go with the evidence. I'll dust the window; you take the crib." And there it was, his confidence in Sara showing as he ceded the most important item to her.

She nodded, knelt down at her case, and extracted a jar she seldom used, mostly full of crimson powder. Red Creeper.

_Serious crime, serious print powder._

**See Chapter 7**


	7. 7

**Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them; any others are mine, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask me first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.**

**This is a sequel to "In the Center", and as such has spoilers through the end of Season 4 but will not take Season 5 into account. **

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

"So what have we got?" Grissom looked around the breakroom table at his team. They were all busily stuffing their faces with Chinese food, and Sara cocked a brow at him in a subtle reminder that he, too, should eat. He picked up his cup of coffee in self-defense.

Warrick swallowed his mouthful and sat up straight. "No shoe prints outside the front or side door," he reported. "The mat inside the back door has a number of prints; all of them are pretty small. My next step is to run comparisons with the shoes we collected from Mrs. Caffrey and her mother."

Grissom nodded, and turned his gaze to Nick, who had wisely emptied his mouth already. "Lotsa prints on the door itself, but I'm betting that they'll all turn out to be members of the household," the younger man said glumly. "The lock was picked by an expert."

"No obvious motive for the kidnapping," Catherine chimed in. "Neither of the Caffreys appear to have any enemies, and Mrs. Caffrey has a decent salary as a personal assistant but no real savings. Her parents aren't wealthy, and neither are Mr. Caffrey's."

"Life insurance?" Grissom asked rhetorically, and Catherine shook her head.

"Apparently he had an appointment scheduled with an agent for the day after he was killed. Ironic, huh?"

Sara set down her carton of noodles. "I found a few hairs and stray fibers in the crib," she said. "Most of the hairs are fine enough to be Jeremy's, or are a visual match for his mother or grandmother; they're waiting on identification. Two of the fibers are a match to Jeremy's missing blanket, and one is white cotton. Probably a towel." She fiddled with her napkin. "No prints that don't belong, but also, no signs of blood. Nothing to indicate that Jeremy was harmed."

It wasn't much, but the tension around the table cranked down a notch, and Greg took up the thread. "The organic substance on the crib sheet was basically regurgitated breast milk," he reported tersely, eschewing his usual flourishes. "Nothing out of the ordinary. But--" he paused, obviously switching mental gears. "--There was nothing in the back yard, Grissom, and I do mean nothing."

He matched Grissom's frown with one of his own, more puzzlement than anger; as the rookie he'd been assigned to look over the back yard for signs of the intruder. "Nothing outside the window, or anywhere in the yard. No broken plants, nothing dropped in the grass, nada. Are you sure the kidnapper used that window at all?"

Five gazes were suddenly fixed on Greg, and he shifted uncomfortably. "I know it sounds crazy, but--"

"It's not crazy," Grissom said abruptly. "You've raised an important question, Greg, well done. The window may have been left open to throw us off the scent."

"What scent?" Warrick asked, frustrated. "We've got nothing."

"Wrong," Grissom countered. "If Greg's theory is correct, then we have a piece of information about the kidnapper that we didn't have before."

**xxx**

Sara slipped into Grissom's office and shut the door behind her, sinking wearily into a chair. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" she asked.

Grissom regarded her over his glasses. "If you're thinking of a possible connection between the thefts of precious objects and the Caffrey kidnapping, then yes," he admitted. "Even though there is no evidence to support it."

"No concrete evidence," Sara corrected. "There's plenty of negative evidence."

"Negative evidence?" Grissom asked, amused despite himself.

Sara ignored his raised brows. "The _lack_ of evidence is a link in itself," she argued. "It's the same modus operandi, a picked lock but no prints of any kind, even shoe prints. And Jeremy w-is definitely the most precious thing in his mother's life."

"But to jump from theft to kidnapping--"

Sara shook her head, her eyes wide as she came to the realization. "It isn't a jump for this person, Griss," she said slowly. "Whoever it is, they want the thing that's most precious. Whatever it is. Or whoever. Jeremy's not a person to this perp, he's an object."

Grissom's mouth tightened. "The question is, will he--or she--treat Jeremy as an infant, or a trophy?"

**xxx**

Neither of them could sleep. Instead, they sat entangled on the couch, watching one of Grissom's DVDs, the silent figures in black and white making their way across the TV screen while the two scientists held each other and waited. This was the worst part.

They'd worked a long shift on the scanty evidence from the Caffrey case, but they'd come up empty at every turn. All prints and hairs matched the house's inhabitants; the white fiber was technically untraceable but most likely came from the soft hooded towel that Mrs. Caffrey had used to dry her son's body after his bath. She still waited by the phone; Sara's theory linking the thefts with the kidnapping was tenuous at best, and they had no evidence to show that a ransom call would not be made.

"I still think we should be looking for a connection between the theft victims and Mrs. Caffrey," Sara grumbled into Grissom's hair.

He shifted a little in her arms so he could tilt his head back to look at her. "Sara..."

"You know as well as I do that there's something, Gil," she insisted.

"I think there _may _be something," he corrected. "I have no proof that there is."

Sara scoffed. "We should be finding the proof."

He put his hands over hers where they were crossed on his chest. "Where would we start?"

The tone of his voice told her that he was slipping into professorial mode, wanting to see what she would come up with. She squeezed him a little in reproof. "Go back over the interviews. Then talk to the vics again. See if we can find any common person in their lives who would know what was most important to them."

Grissom chuckled a little. "And the best time to interview subjects is...?"

Sara began laughing, and shoved at him. "Off! We need to go back to work."

They conducted the interviews by phone, rather than in person; their questions were few, and it saved a great deal of time. An hour before shift was due to start, they met in the breakroom, red-eyed from lack of sleep but both of them cautiously pleased.

"Well?" Grissom asked, lifting his brows.

"The insurance agent," Sara said, her tone wondering rather than smug. "I mean, come on! But they all seem to have the same insurance agent."

Grissom nodded. "A small quiet woman--people kept describing her as 'elfin'--from whom they purchased their property insurance."

"Someone who would know what they valued," Sara mused. "And all she would have to do is keep them talking to find out what they thought most precious, even if it wasn't technically valuable."

Grissom looked down at his notes. "Laurie Carroll, age fifty-seven, an independent agent who places policies with a variety of insurers."

"I have an address," Sara said, sounding predatory, and Grissom nodded again.

"Take Vartan if he's on, and see if you can get a warrant. It's still pretty flimsy," he warned. "Most of these robberies aren't urgent, even the ones for more valuable objects."

"I'll see if Judge Nguyen is available." Sara stood, her mind already racing ahead. "He's usually pretty accommodating."

"Good. And Sara--call me when you get it."

**xxx**

The house was out at the edge of one of the newer developments, but obviously predated them by at least several decades. It was low and long, and slightly shabby; a modest late-model sedan sat in the driveway. Grissom and Sara arrived at the same time as Det. Vartan and his two subordinates, but were surprised to see a couple of beat cops climbing out of a squad car as well.

Vartan seemed equally surprised. "What's up?" he asked the officers as they all gathered on the front walk.

The redheaded woman replied. "Neighbors reported a baby crying at this address," she said with a shrug that indicated bafflement. "They're known busybodies, but the resident doesn't have any children."

Grissom and Sara exchanged glances, and Vartan's mouth tightened. "You two, around the back," he directed. "We have a warrant and reason to believe that the kidnapped Caffrey infant may be held at this address."

The two officers stiffened, all casualness dropping away, and they drew their weapons and hastened silently away. Vartan gestured to his own officers to attend him, then unholstered his own gun and took in the two CSIs with a glance. "Backup only, you understand?" he said in a low voice, and they nodded, setting down their cases and reaching for their weapons.

Grissom wanted very much to make Sara stay outside, but he knew better, and when he glanced over at her he realized with a touch of humor what her narrow-eyed look meant--both a don't-you-dare warning to himself, and a hint of the same protective feeling. Instead, he pursed his lips and tilted his head, an ironic after-you gesture, and Sara stepped up onto the low porch behind the officers.

The detective knocked loudly on the door. "Ms. Carroll, Las Vegas Police. Please open the door, we have a warrant."

His gaze flicked back over the CSIs, and Sara remembered for an instant the last time she and Vartan had apprehended a suspect, and shivered. But Grissom's free hand touched the small of her back, and she straightened her spine. _This is different. No raving madman with a shotgun. _

_I hope. _

Vartan repeated his knock and bellow. When there was no response, he leaned back and kicked the door carefully, and it splintered at the lock and flew open. Grissom managed to step in front of Sara as they followed the police inside, but there were no signs of life in the living room beyond, no sounds--

A wail filled the air, the sound of a very young infant who was not at all happy. Vartan grabbed Sara's arm as she started to move past him, giving her an exasperated look, but changed his path so that they could follow the crying. Judging from the volume, the baby in question was probably in good health, Grissom thought--hoping hard.

They found the baby in a small nursery off the hallway, lying in an antique cradle. His face was screwed up with rage and his fists were waving, but his voice was strong. Grissom holstered his weapon and crouched down, brushing back the covers. The baby's cries slowed and its eyes opened, fixing on the face above it with wonder.

"It's Jeremy," Grissom reported with relief, noting no signs of neglect. The baby's ebony skin glowed with health, and when Grissom lifted the small body in his arms the curly hair was fragrant and clean; he blinked as one small fist immediately tried to grip his beard.

"Outside," Vartan said shortly. "All three of you, until we clear this place."

Sara snorted, but jerked her head, and led the way back outside. The two CSIs prudently retreated to their SUV, in case cover turned out to be required, and Grissom looked down at Jeremy, who was now quiet, apparently fascinated by the scientist who held him.

Sara put her gun away. "He likes you," she commented, a wealth of amusement in her voice. Grissom smirked back, tilting Jeremy up a bit so he could look around.

"No reason why he shouldn't." He frowned a little. "Will you take him for a minute? There's a blanket in the back of the truck."

"I'll find it." Sara opened the back door and pulled out the fleece blanket, handing it to Grissom, who wrapped Jeremy in it with some awkwardness. A thought struck her as she watched, and she reached into her vest for the small digital camera there.

Grissom looked up at the flash, startled and indignant, but it was too late; Sara lowered the camera with a full-fledged grin. "If that goes up in the break room, you can forget about your holiday bonus," Grissom warned, but her smile didn't abate.

"Personal use only," she replied. "Hey, Jeremy." She stepped closer, wiggling her fingers at the infant, whose face had wrinkled with confusion at the flash.

"We need to report that we've found him," Grissom said, and abruptly handed the baby to Sara. Her arms came up automatically, though her own face showed distress, and Grissom's hands didn't release Jeremy until he saw she had a good grip.

"Hey, Grissom, I don't--" But it was too late; Grissom was already pulling out his cellphone. Sara grimaced, staring down at the wide eyes gazing back up at her. "Sorry, kid," she muttered.

One tiny arm came free of the blanket, grabbing for Sara's chin. It was too short to reach, but Sara found herself smiling again. Slowly, Jeremy returned the smile, blowing a bubble as he did so, and Sara had to chuckle.

"Clear!" Vartan shouted from the house. "You guys can come back in."

The CSIs walked back towards the house, Grissom still talking on his phone. As they neared the door, he looked at the detective. "Can an officer take Jeremy to the hospital and his mother?"

"Sure." Vartan ducked back inside and gave the order, and Grissom relayed the information and closed his phone. Playing a hunch, he walked over to the car in the drive and peered inside.

"What's up?" Sara said, coming up behind him, and Grissom straightened.

"There's a car seat in there." He pointed, and Sara snickered.

"I'll get the officers to pop the door open."

"Good. When you're relieved of duty--" he nodded at the baby-- "join me inside."

**xxx**

The house was a wonder, in a twisted sort of way, Sara supposed. They hadn't had much time to look around when searching for Jeremy--at least she hadn't, she wouldn't speak for Grissom's observational skills--but a more leisurely inspection revealed a disquieting decorating scheme. In themselves, the carefully tended display items indicated nothing but a very eclectic taste in decorating, but with what the CSIs knew, it was eerie. There was little doubt that Laurie Carroll was their thief.

Paintings, ranging from a small and priceless Impressionist to Warrick's velvet Elvis, hung at intervals along the walls. A four-hundred-year-old Bible was stored carefully in a glass case next to a stand holding José Habrano's dented student flute. Various ornaments and objects d'art lined the mantelpiece, and a huge cut-crystal bowl that Sara recognized from one of the files she'd found sat on the coffee table.

The other rooms were the same, each holding items ranging in value from wildly expensive to utterly worthless; each object displayed with such care, they suspected, had once been some person's most beloved possession. Grissom and Sara moved from room to room, documenting and photographing, and waiting for Nick to come help.

Vartan and his officers remained on guard. There had been no sign of Carroll in the house, and no hint of where she might have gone. The land beyond the development was low hills and scrubland, and while there were several trails leading into the semi-desert land, they appeared to be well-used by bikes and walkers. Vartan had issued an APB for the woman, and for the moment that was all they could do until the CSIs turned up something more.

Sara pulled out a drawer in the master bedroom's dresser, and shook her head in wonder. "Grissom, come take a look at this."

He looked over her shoulder, their proximity pleasantly familiar but without the aching tension that had plagued them in the past. "Impressive."

Sara took another photo and then reached in with a gloved hand, lifting out the velvet jewelry tray. As she laid it on the dresser top, the gemmed necklaces within sparkled. "There's at least three more layers in here," she reported.

"Well, we already surmised that Ms. Carroll had been stealing for quite some time," Grissom said. "It would seem that she keeps all her prizes."

A knock made them both look up. Nick stood in the doorway, fist resting on the frame and a grin on his face. "Y'all are _cute_," he said, and let the twin glares bounce off of him.

Grissom straightened away from Sara. "Just for that, Nick, you can do the perimeter," he said coolly. "Stay alert, though--"

Nick nodded. "Yeah, Alex briefed me." He winked at Sara and vanished.

"I'll get him for that," she muttered.

"Later," Grissom admonished, and opened the closet doors. "'Her clothing is silk and purple'."

Sara's brows rose at the quote. "Care to repeat that?"

Grissom gestured at the closet. "I would guess that Ms. Carroll's mania for collecting extended to clothing as well."

Sara joined him, and whistled softly as she looked into the space. One side of the closet was taken up with ordinary work clothes and sensible shoes, but the other held at least two wedding gowns and several other formal dresses, all carefully covered in plastic. Multiple pairs of shoes lined the floor, and three elaborate hats sat on stands on the shelf above.

Sara waited until Grissom had finished taking photos, then reached in and pulled out a floor-length mink coat. "Too big for her," was her only comment.

"I don't think usage is the point," Grissom answered, and Sara nodded, carefully replacing the coat.

"This is weird," she added, returning to the dresser.

"It's definitely worth a write-up," Grissom agreed, but she shook her head, shivering a little.

"It's not just _this, _Grissom," and she gestured at the room. "There's something else. It feels like we're being watched."

Grissom stared at her. "I thought it was just me," he said after a moment, and they exchanged somber looks. Grissom craned his head back and swept the beam of his flashlight across the ceiling, but there were no signs of cameras or holes. He stepped up next to Sara and leaned over to speak quietly into her ear.

"Get one of the officers to check the attic. And...don't mention this to Nick just yet."

Sara nodded, and hurried from the room.

Five minutes later she reported back to Grissom. "The attic's full of furniture, but it doesn't look like anybody's been up there in weeks."

As she finished speaking, Nick appeared, face a little flushed. "Hey, you have to come see this."

They followed him out to the backyard. Night had fallen as they processed, but Nick had turned on the back porch light, "I was checking out the perimeter like you said, and I stuck my foot in a hole," he said, leading them across the grass towards the back fence. "Nearly ended up on my face. Anyway, I took a look, and found this."

The beam of his light picked out a grotesque sight--the apparent limb of a small infant protruding from the dirt. A closer look revealed it to be the leg of a doll.

"So someone buried a toy?" Sara asked, and Nick grinned again, clearly excited.

"That's what I thought--you know, some kid playing funeral or something. But look." He crouched down and held his light parallel with the ground, passing the beam slowly over the lawn at grass level. The moving shadows hinted at low swells and dips in the ground--regular ones.

"Get the ground imaging equipment, Nick," Grissom ordered, his voice tight. "Call Greg to help you."

The three of them stood surveying the yard for another moment, hoping desperately that there was nothing buried there but toys.

**See Chapter 8**


	8. 8

**Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them; any others are mine, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask me first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.**

**This is a sequel to "In the Center", and as such has spoilers through the end of Season 4 but will not take Season 5 into account. **

**My apologies for the GIP, but it's necessary. **

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Grissom sprang for breakfast, ordering it in, and they sat around the breakroom table, with Catherine and Warrick eavesdropping with interest. "Report," Grissom said, snagging a cream cheese danish before Catherine could reach it and grinning at her mock pout.

"The back yard's a treasure trove of stuff," Nick said, sipping his coffee. "Forty-one objects and two skeletons, a dog and a cat respectively. The objects range from the doll to a car engine to a guitar case, but not all of it is identifiable without digging it up. And--" He beamed. "In the garage, we found Angostura's Bittersweet Baby, safe and sound. Greg found him, actually." He punched the younger man lightly on the arm.

"Angostura's _what?_" Catherine asked.

"A stolen show rabbit," Grissom explained. "I assume you brought it back with you, Nick?"

"He's getting spoiled by Ruthie in the Evidence locker right now," Nick assured him. "Can we process him first, though, Griss? I'd like to get him back to his mistress as soon as possible."

"I think that can be arranged," Grissom said, ignoring the snickers. "Sara?"

"I found every object listed as stolen in our pile of unsolved files," she said. "It's impossible to say what other objects are stolen, however, and what may have been legitimately acquired. For instance, we don't know how long Carroll has been stealing, or where."

"We don't even know that it is Carroll," Grissom reminded them, again ignoring the eye-rolls. "Until we process the evidence, all we have is suspicions."

"Any idea where she went?" Nick asked, and Grissom shook his head.

"None. She can't have been gone for more than a few hours, given that Jeremy was neither hungry nor dirty. The nosy neighbors may have tipped her off."

"Alex is handling the interviews," Sara told him, buttering a bagel.

Grissom looked around at his team. "Well. With Jeremy's recovery, this case dropped from Priority One to merely urgent, and so far we haven't found anything to tell us where Ms. Carroll has gone. There was no computer or address book either at her home or her office; she may have taken them with her. So I suggest you all go home and get some rest." His mouth twitched. "You'll need it."

**xxx**

That afternoon, Grissom went into work early, leaving Sara still seated at the kitchen table with her coffee and the mail. He had a conference call scheduled with entomologists in Korea and London, and he walked out the door feeling a lack of sleep but happily tasting Sara's kiss on his lips.

The call went well, and Grissom was just beginning to hope that the evening would go smoothly despite the lack of any knowledge of Laurie Carroll's whereabouts, when that hope shattered on the expression on Sara's face as she opened his office door.

Grissom recognized that look of fury. Sara's narrowed eyes and tight face meant that something had annoyed her royally, and he wondered what had incurred her righteous wrath. She closed his office door behind her and stalked forward, slapping that day's newspaper down in front of him, and he amended his thought. _Not what, but who. _

"_Look_ at that," she said, her voice low and vicious. "I can't believe he violated my privacy like that!"

Grissom skimmed the article, which was on the third page of the paper's B section. The article dealt with the aftermath of Jeremy Caffrey's kidnapping and recovery, and included a moderate interview with the Sheriff--who mentioned CSI Sara Sidle several times as instrumental in the case.

Grissom removed his glasses and sat back. "I take it you're upset because he didn't ask your permission first?"

"You bet your ass I'm upset!" Sara glared at both Grissom and the paper. "I didn't even know about it until some reporter called asking for a statement!"

"It's part of the job," he pointed out mildly. "Most people would be pleased with the recognition."

Her anger ebbed somewhat, and she sat slowly down opposite him. "I know that, Grissom. I do. But it seriously pisses me off that he didn't even tell me about this. I mean, I know we're public servants and all that, but--" She gestured, and Grissom nodded, seeing both sides of the issue. On the one hand, positive publicity was a boon for the lab and for his team. On the other, the repeated mention of Sara represented an intrusion into her very private life.

"I suggest you let the Sheriff know that you'd like a little warning next time--politely, Sara," he added sternly at her evil look. "As for the reporters, just tell them 'no comment'." He shrugged at her disbelief. "It works for me."

**xxx**

A week passed; the night shift finished processing the evidence from the Carroll case, but found no hint of her whereabouts. Babe was restored to his ecstatic owner--Nick invited himself to ride along on that one, just to see Alice's face--and the burden of the case passed on to the police, who alerted other departments to the fugitive and continued their search for her. When the weekend arrived, Sara and Grissom spent Saturday morning asleep, then woke and parted to attend to separate chores; Grissom wanted to get his hair trimmed, and Sara's car needed the oil changed. She expected Grissom to beat her home, and wasn't disappointed at the sight of his car in its parking space. _I wonder if I can talk him into making lasagne for dinner. _

"Gil?" Sara shut the front door behind her and walked into the living room, dropping her bag on the counter next to Grissom's wallet and keys. When Grissom didn't answer, she headed for the hallway, noting that the bathroom door was open. Stepping into their bedroom, she froze. The bed was made.

It was glaring. They never made the bed; they both agreed it was illogical to straighten covers that were only going to be rumpled again the next morning. But now the comforter was pulled up neatly over plumped pillows, the corners tucked in with mathematical precision. And there was a note in the middle of it.

Confused, Sara picked up the paper, wondering what had prompted Grissom to such unnatural tidiness, but her puzzlement turned to alarm when she realized that the handwriting wasn't Grissom's.

_You took my treasures, _the note said simply, _so I took yours. Come find me. Alone. _

Sara realized dimly that she was panting with a volatile, sickening mixture of panic and rage, but her thoughts rode above the turmoil, clear and icy. _It's Laurie Carroll. It has to be. She has Gil. _

_Find her? How the hell do I do that? _

Sara's mind spun briefly with the possibilities, but then steadied on one certain thought, much as it had when she'd realized the link between the objects that Carroll chose to steal. She had no proof, no evidence, but the logic was there, waiting to be seen. Whirling back to the door, she grabbed her bag; it held not only her badge and cellphone, but her gun as well.

_She better not have hurt him. Or I'll take a lot more from her than her stuff. _

**xxx**

"If you'll just tell me what you want--" Grissom tried again, only to meet Laurie Carroll's gimlet stare. The one that told him that she knew very well that he already knew what she wanted, and that gleamed with a mind gone beyond sanity's boundaries.

"Shut up," she warned. "Or--" And she waved her handgun at the roll of duct tape that sat on the counter.

Grissom subsided. His hands were already taped behind his back, his arms bound to the chair in which he sat in a rather humiliating repeat of an experiment he'd done not too long ago. He had no desire to have his mouth taped shut as well. _Not to mention getting the tape off again afterwards. _He winced at the thought. _If I get an afterwards. _

He was still blaming himself for walking into Carroll's trap, but more for his reflexes--which hadn't proved fast enough--than for being surprised in the first place. There had been no reason to believe that Carroll was still even in the area.

If there was anything Carroll knew besides insurance, it was how to break into a home and remain undetected. It wasn't until he'd emerged from the bathroom that he'd been confronted by the diminutive woman holding a .45 on him with a very steady aim.

The whole incident was going to prove embarrassing if he survived it. He was, after all, a trained criminalist and a very good shot, and he'd been taken captive by a crazy civilian with appalling ease. _Though the truly insane are much harder to predict. _She'd given him no opportunity for escape or attack, promising coolly to shoot out his elbow joint if he resisted her in any way, and had herded him down to a small, battered car.

_The trunk opened slowly, as though the hinges were stiff, and Carroll looked around warily, but the parking lot was empty of people at this early hour. "Get in," she instructed, her aim irritatingly unwavering, and Grissom complied slowly, scouring his brain for an opportunity and coming up empty. She'd known exactly what to threaten him with. A killing shot he might risk--the torso was a big area, and there was a good chance that a bullet would miss anything vital--but the muzzle pressed against his elbow was the perfect deterrent. Attack her, and while he might overpower her, she would still probably squeeze the trigger--and his elbow joint would be destroyed, along with his ability to do his work. _

_As he pulled his legs into the trunk, the gun came down hard on the back of his head, and the light vanished even before the trunk closed. _

Now Grissom knew where he was, and it was simple to extrapolate what Carroll was planning to do. He didn't like it in the least. He was the centerpiece in a display, the bait in a trap, and while he hoped desperately that Sara would be smart and play it safe, he knew her far too well. When it came to the truly important things, Sara's heart ruled her head.

_Admit it to yourself, at least. You wouldn't have her any other way. _

The front door clicked as the lock turned, and then swung open. Sara walked into her own apartment, her hard stare encompassing both figures at once without surprise. "You okay, Griss?" she asked calmly, and Grissom nodded, realizing with an odd surge of mingled fear and satisfaction that Laurie Carroll had made one grievous mistake.

She had made Sara Sidle angry.

"I'm fine," he said, equally casual, though his heart was pounding. He'd almost fooled himself into calm, reasonably certain that while Sara was the target of Carroll's revenge, he himself was the one in physical danger. But his heart wasn't at all convinced, and was crying out in rage and anguish at the sight of the gun leveled at Sara's midsection. He clenched his teeth on his emotions and schooled himself to wait.

There was nothing he could do anyway. Words had already failed him.

"I'm here," Sara said flatly, dropping her bag on her breakfast bar as she usually did. Her badge was around her neck and her gun in its holster; she still wore her Forensics vest, and that told Grissom that she must have some plan. She always took it off before leaving the lab, even though it went home with her.

Carroll sighed, as though Sara's arrival completed something for her. She didn't _look _threatening; small and trim, she looked to Grissom remarkably like the typing teacher at his high school, except that her hair was in a pixie cut instead of a bun. But she handled the gun with the assurance of the expert, and her aim did not waver.

"You're prompt," she said with satisfaction, and Sara shrugged.

"It wasn't hard to figure out what you meant. Your house is still under surveillance; mine was the next most logical choice." She leaned back against the counter, folding her arms. "Though I suppose you could have just stayed at Grissom's."

"The taking's part of it," Carroll said, and walked over to Grissom. "I'm going to take him from you, your most precious possession." She looked down at Grissom with a sort of cool pleasure. "I took the precious things and made them mine. Making _you_ mine would be the ultimate prize, but it's beyond my capabilities." She smiled, and Grissom's spine crinkled unpleasantly. "I know my limits."

"You're wrong," Sara told her, and Carroll laughed as she brought the .45 to bear along Grissom's temple. He tried not to flinch, the back of his mind supplying him with images of close-range head shots.

"Don't give me any lies about him being a person rather than a possession. Lovers own each other, that's how it works. Anything that's loved can be lost."

"That's not it," Sara returned, unfolding her arms and straightening. "He's not my most precious possession." She grinned, a hard flash of teeth. "Close, but...no."

A pang struck Grissom, even though he was assured of her love for him, and one irreverent corner of his mind insisted on speculating what she treasured more.

He squinted out of the corner of his eye. Carroll was frowning. "Don't try lying to me."

"He's not." Sara's voice was passionate. "The thing I value most, you have no control over, Laurie." She took a slow, deliberate step forward. "Do you want to know what it is?"

The pressure of the gun muzzle didn't lessen, but Grissom felt the movement as Carroll shifted her weight uneasily. "You can't stop me."

"No. I can't." Grissom turned his gaze to Sara, but she wasn't looking at him; all her attention was on the smaller woman. He could see the iron tension in the lines of Sara's body, though her hands hung loose and open. "But killing him won't steal my one precious thing from me."

She took another step forward, and Carroll seemed almost hypnotized by her words. "It's my self-respect," Sara went on softly, moving slowly closer. "I love Gil more than anyone else on this Earth, but if he made me lose respect for myself I would leave him in a second."

Grissom drank in her words, ignoring the ache they generated. They made complete sense to him; of course Sara would hold some things higher than even love.

"I lost it once, not too long ago," Sara continued, her tone thoughtful. "And he helped me get it back. He gave me the best gift one human being can give another. But you can't touch it, Laurie. It's beyond your reach." She was standing directly in front of Carroll now, and Grissom swallowed against the lump her statement had raised, and concentrated as Sara's voice dropped even lower.

"My treasure's beyond your limits, Laurie. And you know your limits. So why not let it go?"

**See Chapter 9**


	9. 9

**Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them; any others are mine, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask me first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.**

**This is a sequel to "In the Center", and as such has spoilers through the end of Season 4 but will not take Season 5 into account. **

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

The two women stared at each other, one tall and persuasive, the other strained and wavering. Slowly, achingly slowly, the gun swung away from Grissom's temple and towards Sara's chest. Grissom's mouth went dry. _Sara--_

"You can do that," Sara said, her tone one of reason. "And they'll kill you as soon as you step outside. Let it go, and you get another chance. Let it _go._"

For a long few seconds, Grissom was sure that Carroll was going to pull the trigger. Then the gun sagged in her grip, and Sara removed it as smoothly as if she'd been disarming people for years. With deliberation, she set it on the floor and kicked it gently away, then straightened with startling speed and grabbed Carroll's arm to spin the other woman around. Grissom watched, dizzy with relief, as Sara pinned Carroll's hands behind her and shouted "Clear!"

People poured into the room. Police officers relieved Sara of her captive, and Brass came striding in behind them, scarcely pausing to fish a knife from his pocket before reaching Grissom.

"I thought you were Homicide," Grissom said with half a grin, and Brass snorted, slicing through the tape binding the CSI.

"Too close, buddy, way too close." He stepped back as Grissom rose, and grinned himself. "I'll give you two three minutes, and then it's showtime," he added, and herded the officers and their prisoner out the front door, closing it neatly behind him.

Grissom reached for Sara, pulling her hard against him as her arms wrapped tightly around him in turn. They said nothing for a full minute, simply holding each other, feeling the shaking peak and fade, desperately drinking in what they had feared to lose.

"I was so scared," Sara finally confessed in a whisper. "She could have killed you, Gil, right in front of me, and I wouldn't have been able to stop her."

"But you did." Grissom stroked her hair until she lifted her head from his shoulder. "You did stop her, Sara, and I'm fine."

"I can't lose you," she said hoarsely. "I lied, Gil. You are the most precious thing in my life."

He had to smile a little as his fingers moved to the nape of her neck. "After all those fine words about self-respect?"

Sara laughed shakily and buried her face in his shoulder again. "Okay, so I only lied a little."

He snorted a chuckle and held her tighter. "I love you too."

When Brass returned, he found two professionally detached CSIs just on the other side of the door. "Collect the gun, would you, Jim?" Grissom asked, as Sara handed Brass a pair of latex gloves from her vest.

Grumbling, the captain complied. "You two had better get ready," he said. "Practically the whole night shift's waiting outside, plus the Sheriff."

Grissom sighed, and Sara rolled her eyes. "Great," she muttered.

Brass held up the gun. "Nice," he said dryly. "She sure knew her weaponry."

"What _are_ you doing here?" Grissom asked curiously. "This was never your case."

Sara chuckled. "I asked for the best," she said, winking at Brass.

"Asked, nothing," Brass retorted, his face a little pink. "Try demanded."

He went pinker yet as Sara leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "Thanks, Jim," she said sincerely. "He ran interference for me so I could do this instead of SWAT," she explained to Grissom, stepping away to scoop up her bag.

"Yes, that's something we'll have to discuss," Grissom said in a tart tone, letting Sara know that she wasn't off the hook for doing something dangerous. But she just raised her brows in a challenge right back, and he knew it was going to be an interesting argument.

"So how did this happen, anyway?" Brass asked. "How did she catch you?"

Grissom felt his own face redden, and ran a hand over his scalp, wincing as he brushed the knot in back. Sara frowned, and circled around him, slapping his hand gently away as she ruffled delicately through his hair.

"She broke into the townhouse and waited for me." He hissed a little as Sara's fingers probed the sore spot.

Brass grinned. "We knew that, genius. How'd she get you to cooperate?"

Grissom shrugged. "She threatened to shoot out my elbow."

Brass' brows shot up, and from behind Grissom came a low growl of anger. "She took me out and made me climb into the trunk of her car, then knocked me out." He squinted at the detective as Sara let him go. "Please tell me the audio's been shut off."

Brass raised both hands in a reassuring gesture. "All electronic spying ceased the minute they got cuffs on Carroll," he said. "How's his head, Sara?"

"I think it's only bruised." She was frowning. "But it needs looking at, Gil."

"If you're ready to go, guys, I'll call in the dayshift," Brass went on. "Somebody has to process this place, and all your team is way too involved."

"Agreed," Grissom said, as Sara made a face at the thought of cleaning up after them. "Will you stay to supervise, Jim?"

"You bet," the captain said cheerfully. "Now go, before your people get arrested for trying to break in here." He unfolded his phone to summon the day CSI team, and Sara and Grissom left him behind.

"You do realize," Sara muttered as they reached the stairs, "everyone knows about us now."

Grissom breathed out, rueful amusement. "It saves us the trouble of telling them."

"Or trying to hide it," Sara agreed, reaching the ground floor two steps ahead of him. "It was getting a little awkward."

Grissom reached out and grasped her arm as she headed for the front door. "Hold on a minute."

She stopped and turned at his tug, her expression inquiring. He let her go and cupped her face in his palms, leaning in for a gentle, fervent kiss that she returned without hesitation. He felt her hands on his chest and broke the kiss to look down at them--strong, competent hands that had held his life, and which still held his heart. Then he raised his eyes to hers.

"Sara, I was so scared." He moved his thumb over her lips as she parted them, to hush her. "I was scared for _you._ She had me, but it was you she wanted to hurt." He closed his eyes, and Sara's hands slid up to link behind his neck and pull until their faces touched. "I've never been so scared."

"Me either," she admitted in a whisper.

Grissom shook his head, feeling the fine velvet of her skin slide along his cheek. "Don't ever leave me, Sara." His voice was equally quiet. "It would kill me."

She knew he was exaggerating, but she also knew what he meant. They were too close now; losing her would sever something essential in him.

As losing him would in her.

"I won't," she said against his cheekbone, her voice gone hoarse again.

His chuckle was a rough sound. "Unless I damage your self-respect?"

The knot at her breastbone loosened as she smiled. "Nah. I'd just kick your ass instead."

Grissom laughed outright and enveloped her in one of his rare bearhugs, then let her go, carefully blotting the one tear that had escaped her. She smoothed his rumpled shirt, and in silent accord they resumed their professionalism and headed outside, Grissom holding the door for Sara with his usual absentminded courtesy.

Sara found herself in Nick's arms almost as soon as she stepped outside the building. "Geez, girl, you had us all terrified," he scolded, his voice a mix of anger and admiration. "Telling her off like that--"

She snorted, returning the embrace. Over his shoulder she saw Grissom gently returning Catherine's fierce hug, and smiled. "Make him get his head looked at, Cath," she called as the older woman released Grissom, knowing that Catherine would ignore his protests.

Nick let Sara go but kept a grip on her shoulders. "You sure you're okay?" he asked worriedly.

"I'm fine, Nick," she assured him. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Grissom being hugged by Warrick as well, then being led reluctantly towards the waiting ambulance.

Sensing someone behind her, Sara patted Nick's arms and turned to a Greg gone paler than she'd ever seen him. Her heart melted.

"It's okay, Greg," she said easily, taking his unresisting hands in hers. "We're both fine."

He made a faint, choked noise, and snatched her into a hug as desperate as Nick's. Sara patted his back, only a little surprised. Eyes were watching them from the mill of cops and emergency personnel, but at the moment she really didn't care. Their secret was no longer a secret, and Grissom was safe. Nothing else mattered at the moment.

**xxx**

Grissom was given a clean bill of health by the EMTs and told only to go home and rest, and so after two hours of debriefing--kept to a minimum by a watchful Brass--the two CSIs were sent home. More detail would be needed later, Sara knew, and she'd also seen Carvallo taking Grissom aside for a brief conversation. The closed look on Grissom's face as he turned away from the lab director made her suspicious, but he'd mouthed a "Later" at her and she had held her peace. Time for damage control when they were well-rested. Sara closed the door of the townhouse and threw the lock, and turned into Grissom's embrace. The terrible fear-driven urgency of earlier returned, and they clung to each other, reliving the adrenaline and the relief.

When Grissom's arms loosened a little, Sara lifted her head, but Grissom covered her lips with his before she could say a word.

She opened her mouth beneath the tender pressure, sliding her hands down to his waist and pulling his shirt free with a crisis-driven urgency. His own palms were already warming the skin of her back, and she shivered at the delightful touch. She could taste the desperation between them, the sudden need to come down hard on the side of life after flirting so personally with death.

Then Grissom lifted her off her feet, and she ceased to think at all.

**xxx**

The party at the bar was long, and noisy with cheer. The night shift had given Grissom and Sara enough time to go home and rest a little, but it had been clear that a celebration was in order.

Normally something so focused on him would have made Grissom cringe, but this time it didn't bother him for some reason. Perhaps, he reflected with a slight sense of awe, it was because it felt so good to know how much everyone cared. And, judging by the wondering smile that appeared from time to time on Sara's face, she felt it too.

It had been just the six of them to start with, Brass making a seventh, but as time went on more and more of the night shift appeared, along with a few people from swing and days. The mood evolved from private to a more general celebration, and while some people still came by to offer Grissom slightly awkward expressions of relief, it seemed to him that his rescue and Carroll's capture was giving the lab personnel a badly-needed excuse to party.

He didn't mind that, either.

Grissom sat at a corner table with Brass, nursing a beer, both of them content in the silence of old friends. Sara, Jacqui, Greg, Warrick, and one of the day-shift techs were dancing in a bouncy cluster on the little dance floor, and Grissom watched them happily, admiring Sara's fluid grace and unconscious sensuality. When Warrick pulled her into his arms for a few steps, Grissom ignored the atavistic twinge of jealousy that pricked him. Sara was going home with _him,_ where he could put on a big band recording and sway with her to his heart's content if he so desired.

Then she spun free of Warrick and shot Grissom a grin and a wink, and he had to smile back. _Okay, maybe not so unconscious. _

Doc Robbins appeared with his own bottle, limping majestically over to sit on the other side of Brass. "How does it feel to be rescued?" he asked cheerfully, ignoring Brass' quiet snort.

Grissom paused in mock thought, eyes gleaming. "Just fine, actually," he said dryly, and Robbins nodded with the air of one who shared the feeling.

"To strong women," he intoned, raising his bottle, and the other two complied, though Brass snorted again and muttered something that got lost in his mouthful of beer. Grissom decided that prudence was in order, and didn't ask him to repeat it. He knew more about Brass' past than the captain probably realized, and could guess at the pain involved.

Robbins set down his drink with a satisfied sigh. "You are aware that the fecal matter has hit the revolving blades," he said.

Grissom shrugged, his eyes drifting back to Sara. "It was probably time."

"What are you going to do about it?" Brass asked with a hint of challenge, and Grissom smiled.

"That's something you'll just have to wait to find out, Jim."

**See Chapter 10**


	10. 10

**Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them; any others are mine, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask me first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.**

**This is a sequel to "In the Center", and as such has spoilers through the end of Season 4 but will not take Season 5 into account. **

**Final chapter, and definitely a US rating (Unabashedly Sentimental). You have been warned! **

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

She still didn't look dangerous, Grissom thought, watching through the glass as the slight woman in chains and a jumpsuit sat down at the interrogation room table. She looked a little fey, perhaps, but not so much that she would stand out in a crowd.

Brass sat down opposite Laurie Carroll, placing his folded hands on the table, and Grissom could see that he was going to be avuncular, choosing to treat Carroll as insane rather than straight-out evil. The results of her psych evaluation were still pending, but it was a sucker bet that her lawyer would advise her to plead not guilty by reason of mental disease.

"So, Ms. Carroll, are you going to tell me why?" Brass asked calmly.

Carroll shifted, eyeing him. Grissom heard the door open and shut behind him, but didn't turn, instead holding out one hand; Sara's hand slid into it, and he drew her to his side. There was no one here to observe them, and they both needed the reassurance.

"I told her. She took my treasures." Carroll's gaze flicked to the window, and Grissom tightened his grip on Sara's fingers, realizing that the small woman had guessed that they were there.

"The CSIs work as a team," Brass pointed out mildly. "Why CSI Sidle in particular?"

"The paper said so," Carroll replied, and Sara hissed slightly. "She was the one who figured it out. She's the only one who ever figured it out."

Brass made an affirming noise, and Carroll's eyes went back to him. "I saw them, you know. While they were plundering my house."

The two CSIs exchanged glances, remembering the feeling of being watched. Brass frowned. "How did you do that?"

Carroll snorted, looking contemptuous. "Did you think I wouldn't watch? I was on the hill behind my home. You made me leave, but I wasn't going to just run away."

Grissom's beeper went off, and as he reached down for it, so did Sara's. They looked at the displays and then at each other. "Greg," they said simultaneously.

Grissom sighed. "Do you want to stay? I don't think he needs both of us."

Sara hesitated, then shook her head. "I think I've heard what I need to."

Grissom nodded, and leaned over to shut off the sound, then let Sara's hand go. "You know," he said, trying to keep his voice light, "I wonder what she'd have done if we _hadn't _been together."

Sara snorted. "Probably just killed me straight out." She ignored Grissom's faintly horrified look. "Hey, I keep forgetting to ask you. What did Carvallo say yesterday?"

Grissom blew out his breath. "Well, actually, it went better than I expected. He said that as long as we remain professional in the workplace, he has no objections, since I'm not directly responsible for your potential promotions."

He shrugged, not wanting either to worry Sara or to turn her considerable wrath in the director's direction. The truth was, Carvallo had taken one look at Grissom's expression, and had obviously changed his mind, choosing to be concilatory rather than piss off one of his most valuable employees. His attitude had both amused and irritated Grissom, but the quiet advice to "Marry the girl, Grissom," had wiped away the humor.

It wasn't that he didn't want to. But having someone like the lab director voice the idea seemed to smirch it somehow. And he wasn't about to mention it to Sara just yet.

She gave him a long look, and he figured she suspected there was more to the story than what he was telling her, but for once she let it go.

He considered that a sign that he was rebuilding her trust.

**xxx**

The annual LVPD softball game wasn't for months yet, but Grissom had insisted that he needed to work on his throwing arm, so Sara had dug up their gloves and brought them along. She had to admit that the stretch of throwing and the dull smack of the ball hitting her glove was a little addictive. They stood in the small cul-de-sac outside the house and tossed the ball back and forth in an easy rhythm, standing just far apart that they had to shout a little.

"I like this place," Grissom said loudly, sending the ball in a perfect high arc that dropped precisely into Sara's glove. She grinned.

"It is nice, isn't it? I always loved coming here as a kid." Her aunt's place, high in the Oakland hills, was to Sara almost the epitome of what a retreat should be. The house and its garden tumbled gently down a slope, presenting a closed face to the world but cherishing the tangled plant life within its high fences as a secret. A basket chair swung on the patio and a small swimming pool and jacuzzi sat at the bottom of the garden, gemlike; dwarf fruit trees and a musical little streamlet and pond gave the enclosed space the feel of something from a fairy tale.

She threw the ball back a bit wide, making Grissom reach for it and absently admiring the lines of his body as he moved. "It's one of those places where nothing really changes."

Grissom nodded, opting for a grounder this time. "So your aunt leases it out every year?"

"Not exactly." Sara let the big sphere leave her grip, feeling the pull in muscles she didn't usually use and savoring the thought of the jacuzzi for later. "She likes traveling, so four months out of the year, the place is open to anybody in the family who signs up for it. That way it stays occupied and cared for." A gardener came in once a week, but other than that maintenance was up to the people who stayed there. "I haven't been here since I left California, so I kind of got first dibs."

They fell silent for a while, letting their expressions speak for them as they tossed and caught, trading small jokes and compliments with smiles and gestures. Despite the success of their relationship so far, Sara hadn't been sure how taking a vacation together would work. Leisure time was not something they'd had a lot of. _So far, so good, though. _She'd been right, Grissom had worn himself out preparing for two weeks off, but two days of sleeping late had restored his energy, and they'd simply taken their time, lazing around the kitchen or patio or driving out to explore the wineries and wilderness.

It was wonderful.

Eventually they wound down, edging closer as their arms got tired, and finally Grissom made one last toss and rushed Sara as she caught the ball, grabbing her in his arms and lifting her off her feet. She squealed, laughing. "Don't you dare drop me!"

"Not a chance." Grissom spun her around once, laughing himself, and kissed her soundly before setting her back on her feet. "What time is it?"

Sara slipped off her glove and looked at her watch. "It's only eleven."

"Let's go down to the city. I want seafood for dinner."

She looked up at him, a little surprised; they'd been sticking mostly to quieter areas in their sojourns, enjoying the change from the bustle of Vegas. "You don't want to go to Fred and Harry's?" They'd eaten at the local restaurant twice already.

"San Francisco," Grissom insisted, removing his own glove. His hair was ruffled and curlier than usual, and Sara thought he looked adorable. "We have to go back in three days and we still haven't been to the city."

Sara shrugged, not averse to spending time in her home town. "Okay. I want to change clothes first." Her T-shirt and jeans were rather scruffy.

Grissom opened the front door for her. "Wear something nice," he told her as she passed him, and she turned, curious. He grinned again. "Let's make a night of it."

**xxx**

They took BART into the city. "Baghdad by the Bay," Grissom murmured as the train made its way down towards the water, and Sara glanced over at him.

"I didn't know you knew that one. Did my dad tell you?"

Grissom shook his head, remembering Christmas Day. He'd met Sara's parents before, briefly, but it had been years since he'd seen them. This time, he and Sara had arrived at Tamales Bay to find her parents' bed-and-breakfast overflowing with friends and family; her brother Ed, for instance, had brought a couple of pals with him, a quiet dark man obviously in love with a vivacious redhead who had embraced Sara with the glee of old friends reunited. For a moment Grissom had felt left out, isolated from the swirl of chattering people, but then Sara had dragged him into the heart of it, and over the course of the day he'd found that while he himself could be counted as fairly peculiar, he was downright normal compared to many of the guests. But they were open and friendly, for the most part, and if he barely got to talk to Sara's parents it didn't seem to matter. The food was plentiful and everyone was cheerful.

At one point, though, it had all gotten to be a bit much, and he'd withdrawn a little--retreating from the noise and cheer, ducking out a side door and finding a small path that led towards the ocean.

_The day was sunny but fairly chilly, and goosebumps were springing up on his arms, but he didn't feel like going back for his jacket. The slow hiss of the waves on the beach was soothing, but despite the small sense of relief at getting out of the bustle, Grissom felt melancholy creeping up on him. The people were great, if odd, and he felt easier in that group of strangers than he had in many a more familiar party, but none of them were his except Sara. Loss hit him hard in the pit of the stomach. This was nothing like the quiet holidays he had spent with his mother and her family, the church services and the warm, formal dinners, and suddenly he felt very alone. _

_Then footsteps crunched in the sand behind him, and something warm covered his shoulders. He looked down to see his jacket, and Sara's arms around his waist. "Do you really want to be by yourself?" she murmured next to his ear. _

_And that was when he realized it, for the first time, for the thousandth. He **wasn't **alone. _

_He wrapped his hands around her wrists, leaning back a little, absorbing the bliss of her. "Nope." _

"That shirt looks good on you," Sara commented, and Grissom pulled out of his reverie and glanced down. He'd forgotten what he was wearing almost as soon as he'd put on the green shirt and dark sports coat.

"Thanks." He tugged at his cuffs. "You look stunning, yourself."

She laughed, but he could see her cheeks tinting faintly. "So you said."

Grissom felt his mouth twitch up. In fact, he'd merely wolf-whistled when she'd walked out of the bathroom in the long silky skirt and jacket, their rosy-red color a perfect foil to her skin and the black sleeveless blouse and puzzle necklace fitting accents. He loved it when she pulled up her hair and let the little curls dangle, and he loved making her blush even more. The whistle had done it nicely.

It was a weekend, so the rapid transit would run until the wee hours; they left the station holding hands, a guilty pleasure transmuted to innocence by leaving Las Vegas. Grissom had been here before, but this was Sara's city, and it was only early afternoon. She led him through the Conservatory of Flowers, and then he insisted on a closer look at the Golden Gate, saying that it had been too foggy the last time he'd been in town. They thought about the Exploratorium, but decided it required a day of its own, so Grissom took Sara to a tiny museum she'd never encountered--one that held nothing but coin-operated novelties. She insisted on trying nearly all of them.

As the sun set, they found themselves on Fisherman's Wharf--cliché, as Sara said, but still lots of fun. She dragged Grissom into the Turbo Ride, on the grounds that it was the closest thing around to a roller coaster, and then nearly had to drag him back out again.

Finally they ended up leaning over the railing at the West Marina, looking at the glistening humps of the sea lions as they slept. Grissom's feet hurt, but he couldn't remember having so much fun since the last time he'd visited Six Flags. _Scratch that. Today was much more fun. _

"Whatcha thinking?" Sara asked idly, watching one enormous pinniped roll ponderously over. Grissom turned around to lean back against the rail and admire her profile, sharp-edged in the light from the streetlamp.

"How lucky I am," he said lightly. "Hungry?"

**xxx**

Dinner was seafood for both of them, reminding Sara of their months-ago supper in Marina del Rey, where she had wished for something very much like what she had now. Her sudden grin caught Grissom's attention, but instead of querying her, he merely raised his brows and smiled back. When he looked back down at his plate, Sara took her time watching him, savoring every second.

The last couple of weeks had been as much a time out of time as their previous visit to California, she knew, even though they were very different emotionally. The last few years had seen she and Grissom build a friendship, destroy it, painfully recreate it, and finally dare to risk more. In the months they had been together, they had dealt with arguments, exhaustion, the tensions of keeping secrets, and the terror of Laurie Carroll's madness. They still had to face the ramifications of their relationship at work when they returned.

_And I so don't care right now. _

Nothing was perfect, Sara knew that. Grissom wasn't always easy to live with; he could still be abstracted and unintentionally distant, and sometimes he just forgot to tell her things. Sara knew herself to be difficult at times as well, and was still amazed at times how hard Grissom was to annoy.

But the last two weeks had been as close to perfect as she hoped to get. _Nothing lasts forever, but it does give us something to shoot for in the future. _And shivered a little with delight. _Geez, we have a future._

They lingered over dessert this time, sharing the chocolate mousse and the fruit tarte, laughing when Sara got a smear of mousse on her upper lip, and Grissom taking the opportunity to kiss it away. Finally they made their way back to the train, finding themselves on an empty car but snuggling into one seat together nonetheless. Sara leaned back against Grissom's arm and wondered happily at the strangeness of life. _This time last year I wouldn't have thought this was possible. _

Grissom shifted next to her, and she rolled her head around to look at him. "Something the matter?"

He made a soft, resigned sound. "I'm nervous," he said after a moment, eyes crinkled with amusement mingled with something she couldn't name.

"_Nervous?_ How come?" Sara straightened, puzzled. Grissom shook his head.

"When you think about the future, Sara, what do you want?"

She frowned a little, thinking. "I don't know. Maybe to go back to school for my doctorate someday."

"But you're happy now?"

She looked up at him, at the face she loved because it was his, at the eyes watching her with loving intensity, and smiled. His beard was silky under her fingertips. "I used to wish for a lot of things, Gil. I don't, anymore."

He turned his head to kiss her fingers. "How long have we known each other?"

"Almost ten years." Sara cocked her head playfully. "Are you trying to tell me something?"

"I'm trying to ask you something." Grissom blew out his breath, and Sara realized he really was nervous. She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his lips, warm and brief.

"I have no secrets," she teased. "Go for it."

"Marry me?"

She'd never been the sentimental type, but in that moment all of reality seemed to pulse around her with shock, and then with joy. Their eyes locked, and this time he didn't look away, didn't look away... "Okay."

He blinked, then. "Really?"

"Hell yeah."

He said something else, but she couldn't make it out, since it was said against her mouth. He hadn't held her so tightly since the last time she'd had a nightmare, and it was perfect; she clutched him back, reflecting dimly that nervousness wasn't necessary. He tasted of coffee and chocolate and joy, and the train entered a station and left it before they managed to find words again.

"Did you really think I'd say no?" she mumbled against his cheek, and felt the vibration as he laughed.

"No...I don't know. It wasn't rational, Sara." He leaned back a little to look at her. "We haven't been dating that long and--"

She cut him off with another kiss. He never quite seemed to get that being with him was her heart's desire. "I want this, trust me," she said at last. breathless. "We've known each other for years, Gil. We _know _each other. It makes sense."

He nodded, relaxing. "Yes. Yes, it does." Kissing her one last time, he pulled out of her arms and fumbled in his coat pocket. "If you don't like this, we can find another, of course."

Sara blinked, astonished again, as he opened the worn little box and tilted it to show her the contents. The ring was delicate, and done in the style of an era long past; two small garnets framed a slightly larger diamond, and the gold band was intricately engraved with a leafy pattern. "It was my grandmother's," Grissom added.

"It's gorgeous," Sara said, her voice catching a little. She'd always found the idea of engagement rings a little silly, but this one touched her. Coming from Grissom, it meant so much more than something new.

Grissom picked up her hand and slid the ring onto her finger. Oddly enough, it fit perfectly.

**xxx**

"Brass says that Carroll had a hideout on the hill behind her house, kind of like a duck blind," Grissom explained, sitting at the breakfast bar. Sara made an encouraging noise, though her bottom lip was caught between her teeth as she concentrated on flipping the pancakes. "She was up there the whole time, watching us through binoculars."

"Definitely paranoid," Sara offered, frowning at the griddle.

"In any case, not our problem for a while," he said, standing to begin setting the table but keeping an eye on Sara's efforts. She was determined to learn to cook--because, she said, becoming a Grissom would entitle her to the family chocolate torte recipe. Grissom, laughing, had asked her if she only loved him for his pastry, and her wordless response had distracted them for quite some time.

Now, however, it was an uphill battle. Grissom had always regarded cooking as a mix of art and science, but was amazed at how easily Sara could ruin something. It wasn't that she didn't pay attention; things simply seemed to go wrong around her with diabolical frequency. Nevertheless, progress was being made, and so far that morning she had only scorched two pancakes.

Grissom had set out all the silverware and poured the juice by the time Sara turned off the stove. He watched her as she piled the last few cakes onto the plate, her ring catching the light and twinkling at him, and sighed a little. They'd had a mild argument on the way home--nothing serious, but it had culminated with Sara ordering him in an irritated voice to remember to just _tell _her things. She didn't seem annoyed any longer, but doubt still nibbled at him.

Sara came around the breakfast bar to put the plate on the table, looking extremely pleased with herself, and they sat down together, but then she frowned and sprang up again. "Forgot the syrup," she explained, going back to the kitchen. Grissom turned in his seat, putting one elbow over the back of it.

"Sara..."

"Mmm?" she replied, reaching into the refrigerator.

"Am I too...difficult?" Grissom bit the inside of his cheek, afraid of what his question might spark, but unable to avoid asking it.

Sara straightened with the syrup bottle, looking perplexed, and shut the fridge door. "What?"

He shrugged a little, trying not to show how uncertain he felt. Sara regarded him a long moment, one of her narrow-eyed, calculating looks. Then, as she walked back over, her brilliant smile spread slowly over her face. "You're like treasure, Gil." She ruffled his hair with one hand, eyes warm. "It takes some digging to get to you, but you are so worth it."

Exhaling, relieved, he leaned his head against her stomach, and she set down the bottle so she could stroke his hair with both hands. He put his arms around her hips, and they were silent for a moment, holding the balance of togetherness.

Finally Grissom turned his head, kissing the skin of Sara's abdomen where her shirt had ridden up and making her squeak as his beard tickled her. "The pancakes are getting cold," he pointed out, releasing her.

She wrinkled her nose at him, taking her seat. "That's what the microwave's for."

They were through with the meal and were discussing the weekend when Sara sat up straight. "Wait a minute. You've got that budget meeting on Thursday, right?"

Grissom rolled his eyes. "Don't remind me."

"Phone, please." Sara held out a hand, and Grissom snagged the receiver for her. She punched the speed dial and put the phone between her shoulder and ear, freeing her hands to begin stacking the plates. Grissom started collecting silverware, listening curiously.

He didn't hear anyone answer, but Sara spoke after a moment. "Hey, Jim, it's Sara. --Yeah, I'm fine." She met Grissom's eyes, smiling at him. "Are you free Thursday afternoon?"

Content, he smiled back.

**End.**


End file.
